


Fear No Darkness

by ThunderaTiger



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, Plot - Bittersweet, Post-War of the Ring, Subjects - Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:42:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 219,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4234223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThunderaTiger/pseuds/ThunderaTiger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Remnant of Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

__

Author’s Notes: Hey all! New story going here. I’m rather excited about this one, but I should warn you that it will become quite dark before it’s through. The rating is a rather heavy PG-13 for future scenes, but those are a while away. Anyway, like the summary states, this is a reunion fic of sorts set in Rivendell five years after the War of the Ring. A host of characters will be making an appearance, but they’re all straight from the books so they shouldn’t be too hard to keep straight. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and happy reading! Oh yeah, and I don’t own any of these spectacular characters, either. Tolkien does, lucky guy.

****

Fear No Darkness

 

****

Chapter 1: A Remnant of Shadow

Among the various peoples of Middle Earth—at least, among those who knew of such things—it was generally agreed that the Misty Mountains were aptly named. No traveler dared their fastness without becoming embroiled in their deep shadows of fog and cloud. Whether such darkness was natural or no had always been a matter of sometimes-violent debate among the Wise, but none could say with certainty if the mountain range as a whole held any actual enmity for living creatures or if their ill reputation was merely the accumulation of years of coincidental misfortune. There were many times when the mountains seemed harmless enough, and the shades of mist were few and far between. But there were other times when darkness and shadow grew, seeming to envelop all in a chilling grasp of deadly malice.

Certainly there were fell creatures in the mountains. The trail from Rivendell to Mirkwood known as Goblin Pass was testament to that through name alone. Wolves, also, patrolled the lower slopes of the range, and after the fall of Sauron and the death of Saruman, many of the orcs in the service of the great Enemy had fled to the Misty Mountains where they sought out dark caves and lived in bitter hatred of those who had caused their downfall. And perhaps it was their spirit that gifted the mountains with evil in the years following the Third Age, for their loathing was great and their anger could only be assuaged by war with those who had banished them. Hidden in the deep places of the mountains, they waited, and their thirst for retribution grew until it became as an evil coil, ensnaring their hearts to the point where they considered nothing else. They hungered for the day when they could feast once more upon man-flesh, and their dreams were filled with visions of a blood-splattered field and a broken white city burning in ruin.

But these remaining Orcs could not fulfil their dreams, for they were missing one crucial ingredient. They were missing a leader. Without one, they dared not march on the armies of men. They feared to venture from the safety of the mountains. As a general rule, Orcs chafed under authority and sought to defy it, but they needed it to turn them in the direction of their next target and to order their battles and sorties. On an instinctive level, most orcs knew this and unconsciously searched for some semblance of leadership to arise from the gloom. But there was no Orc strong enough to thrust all others under his heel, and there was no Orc wise enough to command their armies in the field against the battalions of men. And so the soldiers of Mordor and Isengard pined away the years, waiting for one to come who would lead them again to victory and allow them to taste the sweet fruits of success.

It was four years before an answer to their fading hopes appeared.

He arrived in the dead of night, taking the form of a lonely traveler astride a weary black horse. Riding under cover of darkness, he came seeking a stronghold and an army. Four long years had he wandered, searching vainly for a mere hint of a shadow that he feared had perished from the world. Hunted by all who served the new king and driven from a fortress that none had thought to see fall, he had lived as a nightmare in the twilight, taking what vengeance he could and waiting for a time when evil might rise again.

And so he had come to the Misty Mountains, following rumors that darkness still thrived and evil still lived. His spirits lifted as he drew near, for he could taste of the malice and hatred beneath the towering peaks. He sensed the hearts of the Orcs, and felt of their desire for revenge. Their dreams were nearly as cruel as his own, and he smiled with the realization that his long search had finally come to an end. His heart began to beat again with the coming of hope unlooked for. Not all was lost. There was still time to correct the flow of power and change the tides of time.

Spurring his faltering mount forward, the man who was not quite a man smiled. Any who saw this smile would have described it as the leer of a madman, and they would not have been far from the truth. There remained little sanity in this creature, and what reason still lingered had been corrupted long ago by tangled webs of dark sorcery. His black eyes sparkled with brutal intent, and wholesome things seemed to wilt in his presence.

An Orc scouting party found him just short of the mountains. Taking him for a foolish woodsman who ventured too far from safer lands, the tortured creatures attacked. In the beginning, there were five attackers. After a few minutes, only one remained. This last Orc groveled before the man who now wielded a black sword and seemed to pull the very essence of night within himself. The indignant horse stomped and snorted behind this stranger, but the man gave him no heed, instead advancing on his former attacker. The sniveling Orc backed up hastily and cast frightened glances at his four fallen comrades. Three of them had been Uruk-hai, survivors from the fall of Orthanc and mighty warriors. The other dispatched Orc had been an old comrade from the ruin of Mordor and a capable soldier in his own right.

"You dare to attack me?" the cloaked figure demanded, his voice filled with a sense of hidden power. He advanced with his sword drawn, and the light of stars and moon grew dim. Black shadows swam around the blade as though they were an integral part of the weapon, and darkness itself seemed to pledge its undying and eternal service to this stranger.

The surviving Orc cringed and cowered before the man who was not quite a man. He fully expected a blow to fall and end his miserable life—which might have been considered an act of mercy by many, the Orc included—but when he instead continued to live, curiosity wrestled against fear for control and at length he ventured a quick glance upwards.

For a brief moment, the waning light of the pale moon fell upon the shadows beneath the cloak, and darkness gave way to a face that the servant of Mordor had never thought to see again. With a gasp and a choking cry, the Orc dropped his gaze and abased himself on the ground, groveling and sniveling before supreme authority. "Master, spare me" he whined, hoping to placate this man whose talent for cruelty and torture was legend among the slaves of Barad-dur. "I tell you, master, that we did not know it was you. We were told that you perished with the destruction of the Great Eye and the fall of Lugbúrz!"

"You were misinformed," the man said evenly, evaluating the creature that cowered before him. After a grimace of disgust and a sniff of disdain, he took his coal-black eyes from the Orc for a moment and studied the darkness of the mountains. "There are many of you gathered here?"

The Orc hastily bobbed his head. "Many. And we live only to serve you, great master."

The man grunted, taking the Orc’s obeisance as no more than his just due. "I shall spare your miserable life this night, worm," he eventually said, his voice cold and dark. "Gather your kind. Tell them that I have returned. Send what captains you have to meet with me, and spread the word that our time has come again."

"As you wish, master!" the Orc said quickly, smiling in the darkness as an evil laughter echoed in his black heart. The spark of dying hope hidden within the ashes of his foul heart roared to life, and he licked his lips as visions of vengeance and retribution filled his mind. "This way. The entrance to our dungeons is not far."

Summoning his stallion, the man mounted and followed the twisted creature, not once looking back at the beasts he had killed. What was one Orc—or four—to him when far more awaited his command just a few miles away? And with these swine at his bidding, he would be able to exact such revenge as would befit the fallen Dark Lord. Plans would be set in motion, arrangements would be made, and when his enemies gathered in celebration of their victory, he would be ready.

And they would wish for death ere he was done.

* * * *

__

One year later…

"You are troubled, brother."

Roused abruptly from his thoughts, Elladan started slightly and looked about guiltily, somewhat embarrassed to be caught so unawares. "I did not hear you approach," he said, his voice husky in the evening’s cool air.

"You are ever the dreamer," Elrohir said with a light laugh, joining Elladan on one of Rivendell’s many balconies. "But your dreams seem shadowed this night. What disturbs your mind? Perhaps I can aid you."

Elladan sighed and stared out into the east, his sharp eyes tracing the edges of the Misty Mountains as they fell under the darkness of the evening. He wondered if he could craft an answer that his brother would understand, but how could he do so when he did not understand the answer himself? Relaxing his perfect posture, he leaned against the balcony’s railing and took his eyes away from the eastern mountain range, focusing instead on the cliffs that sheltered Rivendell. The sound of waterfalls and laughing elves as they sang and danced in the twilight reached his ears, and he felt part of his anxiety lift. But it did not wholly dissipate.

"Elladan?"

"I do not know, brother," Elladan murmured, returning reluctantly to the object of their conversation. "I…as of late, I have felt that the mountains are strangely dark. They seem ominous, as though they warn me of something that I cannot quite understand. Almost I feel I could grasp it," the half-elf whispered, his eyes narrowing and his voice sounding strained. "And then it is gone. Lost. I am left only with the sense that all is not right and that something dark goes forth." He shook his head and then glanced at his twin. "I doubt if any of that made any sense to you."

"I would be lying if I said I understood your feelings," Elrohir admitted. "But that does not mean that I do not heed their warnings. You have too often been right for me to dismiss your intuition as nothing more than fancy. But can you be specific at all? Do you know the direction or the form this danger might take?"

"I know nothing other than what I have told you," Elladan said, feeling a surge of frustration at his inability to interpret the foreboding of his instincts. "But I fear that it is somehow connected with the upcoming celebration. How that is I know not, nor do I know what evil would be powerful enough to cross into the borders of Rivendell, but something…something dark stirs in the mountains, Elrohir."

"King Thranduil and his escort came through Goblin Pass three days ago, and they reported nothing unusual," Elrohir said, brushing back an errant strand of dark hair that had fallen into his face. "Our scouts have heard nothing from the borders of Hollin, and Celeborn and the Galadhrim came through the Redhorn Gate with little mishap, even if they did tempt the wrath of Caradhras! All that remains is the Gap of Rohan, and Estel and our sister come that way. If evil lies in their path, surely they will defeat it."

"I do not fear for their safety," Elladan said, his voice quiet and reflective. "They have with them the hosts of Gondor, and Arwen could not ask for a better protector than Estel. We should know, for we trained him ourselves." He smiled slightly at that, remembering the young, adventure-loving child who had followed the twins through every dell and dale of Imladris before the burden and heartache of his heritage had been made known to him. "No," Elladan whispered, shaking his head and returning his thoughts to the present. "I do not fear for their sakes. But I still feel as though…" He trailed off and closed his eyes, searching his elven heart for something that would explain his misgivings, but he found nothing. "I know not," he said at length, opening his eyes and turning to face Elrohir. "Perhaps if father were still here, he could interpret my dreams and warnings, but I cannot put them into words myself. In truth, I do not know if I wholly understand any of them. But the evil comes from the mountains, Elrohir. I am certain of that much."

"Then we will watch the mountains, my brother," Elrohir promised. "Evil shall not take us unawares, and we will face whatever might come as we have ever faced the shadow. We will face it together."

The two brothers then fell into silence, taking comfort in the presence of one another and watching the valley of Rivendell as the clear voices of elves drifted through the darkening night. "I spoke with King Thranduil after dinner," Elladan said after a short time had passed. "He has received messages from Legolas that coincide with the letters we’ve received from our sister. Their company should arrive the day after tomorrow, crossing into our territory not long after the sunrise."

"The Wandering Companies in the Shire sent word that the hobbits have left and are on their way. By their reckoning, the hobbits will also arrive the day after tomorrow, but it will probably be late afternoon when they cross the Last Bridge."

"We shall have to send out a party to see to it that the hobbits do not stray from their path," Elladan laughed, some of his frustration vanishing in the face of his mirth.

"I do not think they will stray far as they know that food awaits them here," Elrohir said with a smile.

Elladan laughed harder and nodded his head in agreement. "Ah, I think you have it aright, brother. Yes, I have missed our friends the hobbits. They are filled with great strength and can endure sore trials that would break any mortal man, but deprive them of food in a land of plenty and they whither as a flower in the desert."

"Truly a great people, yet greater still are their stomachs," Elrohir said, joining in with his brother’s laughter. "But come. You seem to have recovered from your worries, and I would have us join the others in the Hall of Fire. There will be singing this night, and they tell me that many new songs are being crafted by our brethren from Mirkwood in honor of the celebration."

"Strange to think that the One Ring was cast into the fires of Orodruin only five years ago. In the distant past it seems to me, and yet not so," Elladan said, pushing off the balcony and turning away. "But you are right again, Elrohir. Now is a time for merriment and rejoicing. And since my dark mood has left me, gladly will I join you."

"Then let us go," Elrohir said, clapping a hand on his brother’s back and leading him away from the balcony and into the house. "We shall see what talents our kindred have and then aid them if we are able."

So saying, the sons of Elrond walked away from the dark night and into the comforts of the Last Homely House. Elladan thought once to look back but ultimately decided against it, opting instead for the laughter and merriment that echoed through the halls. But had he obeyed his instincts and glanced once more into the dark night, he might have paused. Just beyond the borders of Rivendell, shadows moved beneath the trees. Silent and stealthy, they patrolled the forests, seeming to search for something.

But Elladan did not look back, and thus he missed what might have confirmed his suspicions. And heedless of the darkness that lurked beyond their realm, the elves of Rivendell lifted their voices in song, celebrating the destruction of the Enemy in the distant land of Mordor and ignoring the evil that flitted on the edge of their own country.

* * * *

The morning sun rose swift and sure, sending shafts of light between the peaks of the Misty Mountains and rousing a large group of travelers who camped alongside a little known trail in the wilderness of southern Eriador. Horses were watered at a stream that babbled cheerfully beside their camp, some of the company began making preparations for breakfast, and others started packing away the sleeping rolls and checking the supplies of food and other provisions.

Feeling the brush of soft lips on her brow, Arwen turned over and sighed, listening to the morning speech of birds and sensing the rising of the sun though she had yet to focus her eyes and watch the progress of its light.

"Are you awake, Evenstar?"

Arwen mumbled something and reorganized her thoughts, turning them away from the landscape of elven dreams. "I am awake now," she whispered, smiling as she greeted her husband. Her smile faltered slightly to see that he was completely dressed and had evidently been up for quite some time. "Am I late in rising?"

"Perhaps a little," Aragorn teased, mischief sparkling in his eyes. "But the ride yesterday was hard, and we have not had a pleasant night since passing through the Gap of Rohan several days ago. I thought you could use the extra rest. Besides, we will not set out for a while. The horses are as much in need of rest as we are, and I would not begrudge them another hour or so."

"Even so, I would you had woken me earlier," Arwen said with a touch of reproach. "I would not have it said that the king of Gondor is burdened with an idle queen."

"He would be a fool who said such a thing," Aragorn whispered, bending over and kissing her cheek. "But I fear my duties must now take me elsewhere, so by your leave, I will depart." He stood and executed a perfect bow, waiting for Arwen’s permission to exit the small tent.

Arwen laughed and shook her head. "Be gone then, great king of Gondor. You need not wait here on a wife who is unable to rise with the sun."

"Ah, but what need is there to rise with the sun when the sun itself is captured in your beauty?" Aragorn said, and he left quickly ere Arwen could toss a blanket at him. She listened to his footsteps as he walked away and smiled to hear him laughing softly to himself. Her husband was in high spirits, and she strongly suspected it was because they were on the road and traveling. He served his people well and the crown of Gondor was a responsibility and a duty that he loved and revered, but there were times when Strider the Ranger would grow restless within Elessar the king. It was during those times that Aragorn would sometimes disappear during the night, slipping past the guards at the gate as though they were mere children playing a being soldiers, and vanish into the Pelennor fields. He was usually back before dawn, but of late, his nightly escapes had become longer and more frequent. This journey to Rivendell was probably something he desperately needed, and she was glad he was enjoying it so much.

Folding the blankets she’d wrapped around herself for the night, Arwen stood and dressed herself for the day’s ride. Flowing dark hair was caught back in a neat braid, and she donned a soft, creamy shirt and black trousers that fitter her well. Aragorn had once suggested the possibility of bringing her attending ladies with them, but Arwen had laughingly refused. In younger days when the world was not so dark, she had often accompanied her brothers on various trips to Lothlórien and also to the Gray Havens. She was quite capable of caring for herself in harsher circumstances, and though she was now a queen, she did not see the purpose in bringing servants where none were needed. Slipping on a tunic of deep blue, she pulled on her boots and stepped outside the tent, tipping her head back and receiving the fresh air of the mountains.

" _Aur maer, Rîs Arwen_ ," a light voice called behind her.

" _A aur maer den, Ernil Legolas_ ," she answered, turning and smiling at the lord of southern Ithilien as he bowed deeply before her.

"A beautiful sunrise," Legolas commented, switching to Westron out of respect for Gimli who came forward to join them. "I judge it shall be a pleasant day for travel. Was your sleep restful?"

Arwen laughed and shook her head. "And by that, you mean to inquire as to why I am so late in rising. Do not banter words with me, Legolas, for I know you too well."

"Then I will not," Legolas said with a smile. "Why did you not rise with the sun?"

"Legolas!" Gimli scolded, sending his friend a dark look. "What business is it of yours when the queen of Gondor chooses to rise?"

"Because she asked me if I would lend her my bow and arrows for archery this morning ere we left," Legolas answered. "And though I was more than happy to assist her in this, she did not meet me at the appointed place or the appointed time. I was forced to practice with only King Elessar for company, and he has not near the amount of charm or grace that his fair queen possesses."

"You did not tell me of this weapons practice," Gimli said with a scowl.

"It was not a weapons practice but an exercise in archery," Legolas answered. "Had I known you were interested in the bow, I would have invited you. But I did not think that the elegance of such a weapon was something that could be grasped by the minds of the dwarves."

"Your pardon, please, Legolas," Arwen said, breaking in before the two could start in on their famous and eternal argument concerning the superiority of elves verses the omnipotence of dwarves. "I fear I did not even stir when Aragorn rose, and had he not awakened me a few moments ago, I would still be sleeping."

"If you needed the rest, my queen, then all is forgiven," Legolas said with a quick bow. "Shall we make another attempt tomorrow?"

"No, not tomorrow," Arwen said after a minute of thought. "I will wish to leave and finish the last stage of the journey from the moment I wake. I wish that now, but Aragorn tells me that this company cannot hope to make Rivendell by nightfall."

"If we push the horses, I believe we can reach Rivendell several hours after dark," Gimli said, studying their location relative to the surrounding mountains. "And if you wish to arrive quickly, perhaps that will be the best way."

"Perhaps," Arwen said, moving aside as some guards passed by and began to dismantle her tent. "Were I alone in this journey, I would not hesitate to do as you suggest. But there are others here to think of who do not share my desire to see Rivendell by the end of tonight."

"Ah, but surely they would not refuse a request from their queen," Legolas pointed out. "And I also look forward to this reunion, for many of my kinsfolk from Mirkwood will be there and also the young hobbits. I look forward to seeing their faces again! Come, what say you Arwen? Will you not speak to Aragorn on our behalf?"

"Your behalf, you mean," Gimli said. "I would be quite content to wait an extra day if it means spending less time on a horse, particularly a horse over which you seem to have little control."

"Did you not tell me this morning that the rocks made for an uncomfortable bed?" Legolas asked. "And did you not follow this statement by a wish to reach Rivendell quickly so that you might partake of a softer bed?"

"I thought of your welfare in that, Master Elf," Gimli returned. "For while I am able to endure hardships, the royal blood of an elven prince might not take to conditions where there are no servants, no silk, and no gold."

Legolas arched a sculpted eyebrow at his friend and folded his arms across his chest. "May I remind you as to who has the larger pack on this journey? Come, Gimli, if that is to be the way of things, what do you keep in your bag that is of such necessity? For myself, I have a change of clothes, a whetting stone, and some items with which to repair my bow should the need arise. I cannot imagine what you are carrying, but it is heavy enough to suggest that half of the gems from the Glittering Caves travel with you. And yet you accuse me of having gone soft."

Arwen shook her head and walked away when Gimli began to respond. The two would be at it for quite some time and if she chanced upon them again before the order came to mount, she would undoubtedly be able to pick up on the thread of the conversation with relative ease.

Gondor’s queen made her way toward the horses and quickly found her own mount among those waiting to be saddled. Sensing her approach, Hasufel pricked up his ears and whinnied, tossing his proud head. Beside him, Aragorn’s old horse Roheryn shook his shaggy mane and snorted, anxious to begin the day’s ride. Arwen smiled and stroked Hasufel’s sleek gray neck, remembering Eomer’s words on the day of her wedding when he had given her this beautiful animal. He had claimed that if the king of Gondor would not take a proper horse, his queen at least must ride in style. In response, Aragorn had pointed out that even if the horses of Rohan could match Roheryn for speed, they would never match him for loyalty or courage, citing the Paths of the Dead as his primary example. This had led into a rather strange conversation comparing the horses of the Rangers to the horses of the Rohirrim that had eventually reminded Arwen very much of the arguments between Legolas and Gimli. By its end, neither Aragorn nor Eomer had convinced the other of anything, and the logic and reasoning used had turned several complete and totally irrelevant circles.

Hasufel butted his head against her, sniffing hopefully for a treat. She laughed lightly and pushed him away. "My apologies, dear heart," she said. "I have yet to seek breakfast myself. I will bring you something when I mount."

Clearly miffed, the horse snorted and stomped, scolding her for her negligence. Arwen laughed, gave his shoulder an affectionate pat, and then walked toward the food lines where a few stragglers were now seeking breakfast. Her approach was greeted with courteous bows and the line moved back so that she could precede the men. With a nod of gratitude, Arwen received her rations, which consisted of cheese, meat, wine, an apple, bread, and butter. Setting the apple aside for Hasufel, she wrapped the rest in a cloth and decided to go in search of her husband. Doubtless he would have already eaten breakfast or decided to skip it entirely, but at least she could partake of her food in his company.

She found him on the edge of camp where he stood watching the mountains with a strange degree of wariness. Moving to his side, she wrapped her arm around his and leaned against him. "You are troubled."

"It is nothing."

"Truly? It is unlike you to be troubled over nothing, my husband."

The king laughed quietly and shook his head. "There are times when I wish I was still a lonely Ranger who could be troubled without several dozen people knowing of it."

"Several dozen people do not know of it," Arwen returned. "By my count, there are only two of us here. And though my elven senses have dimmed somewhat, I think I can still trust them in this. Come; tell me what troubles you. Perhaps I can set it right."

There was moment of silence and then Aragorn sighed. "Legolas said something to me this morning during a brief session of archery," he started, removing his arm from hers so that he could wrap it around her shoulders instead. "He said the mountains were strangely shadowed. At the time, it seemed only an idle comment and he expressed no further concerns for the duration of the practice, but as we were retrieving the arrows, he looked again at the mountains and said the same thing."

"What do you sense from the mountains?" Arwen asked, leaning closer against Aragorn.

"Darkness." The king sighed and shook his head, narrowing his eyes at the looming peaks as though he could penetrate their mists with mortal sight. "But they have always seemed dark to me, and I know not if this is a mere continuation of that darkness or something new. What of you, Arwen? What do you sense?"

"Until a moment ago, I sensed nothing," Arwen answered. "Yet now that you speak of it, they do seem darker, somehow. Long did I dwell in Rivendell, and from its safety, the Misty Mountains were a dim threat. But I traveled abroad enough to know and sense of their malice. It was always present, as it is now, but I think Legolas might be right. There is a strange shadow over the mountains that I do not believe was there before."

"And so the opinion of two respected elves is that there is something brewing within the shadows of the mountains," Aragorn sighed. "How shall I not consider such a thing, and yet how shall I combat a threat that has yet to manifest itself in physical form?"

"I believe the threat is still dim," Arwen answered, watching the mountains carefully. "It does not seem to me that we have need for fear, but there is need for caution." She hesitated for a moment, uncertain if she should use this moment to speak of Legolas’s suggestion. But there was now justification for it aside from their simple desires to reach Imladris. It was not a purely selfish request. And perhaps this was the true reason behind Legolas’s request. Perhaps he had been reluctant to speak of the shadow but concerned for it all the same. "Aragorn…Gimli said it might be possible to arrive at Rivendell tonight."

"We would have to travel after sunset, but yes, it is possible."

"In light of this new darkness, would that not be a better plan?" Arwen asked, wrapping her arm around her husband’s waist. "The elves of Rivendell would protect us should a threat present itself."

"We are quite capable of protecting ourselves," Aragorn reminded her, glancing back at the guards and men who were finishing the morning’s preparations for travel. "Or do you think that I have lost some of my ability in combat because of years of rule?"

"Nothing of the sort," Arwen said, hastening to assuage the indignant tone in Aragorn’s voice. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught him smiling at her and realized she’d been taken in. With a sigh and a shake of her head, she continued. "Aragorn, I would feel safer within Rivendell’s protective cliffs and elven boundaries."

"And this has nothing to do with a desire to see your brothers again?"

"Perhaps that is a part of it," she admitted.

Aragorn chuckled and drew her close against him. "If the horses are able, your request is my command," he whispered. "We will arrive in Rivendell tonight if circumstances permit."

"Thank you, my husband," Arwen said.

"You are more than welcome," Aragorn answered. "If that is all, we should give the orders to mount. I sense that the men are ready. And you may also want to tell Legolas that we will be arriving in Rivendell tonight." He sent her a sidelong look and his smile grew. "He is also interested in that possibility, is he not?"

"You are more elf than man," Arwen sighed.

"I have spent more of my life around elves than I have around men," Aragorn responded. "And you have yet to learn the art of dissembling. To most, you are as composed as any elf, but to knowing eyes, you are as an open book." He squeezed her against his solid form once more and then released her, turning back to the camp. "Come. If we are to make Rivendell in good time, we must leave now."

Arwen nodded and followed, pausing just once to glance at the mountains. Now that she stopped to consider it, there was something off about them. They seemed darker somehow, more sinister. But perhaps this was because she had been away for so long and had enjoyed the blessings of the White City. And yet…Legolas now lived in the shadow of the Ephel Duath, and if he thought the Misty Mountains seemed dark…

"Arwen?"

"Coming," she answered quickly, turning away from the eastern peaks. Perhaps it was nothing, and even if evil did stir, what harm could possibly come upon Rivendell? Not only did her brothers and other lingering elves still dwell there, but the hosts of Gondor would also be in attendance as well as elves out of both Mirkwood and Lothlórien. They were arguably safer in Rivendell than they were in Gondor. _It is nothing_ , she told herself, pushing her thoughts away from the peaks. _Their darkness is but an echo of past evil._ With a shake of her head, she hurried after her departing husband and so missed the tendrils of shadow that began to detach themselves from the base of the mountains.

 

 

__

Aur maer, Rîs Arwen—Good morning, Queen Arwen.

__

A aur maer den, Ernil Legolas—And good morning to you, Prince Legolas.


	2. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks go out to all the sharp-eyed readers who caught the nasty errors in the first chapter. I think theyre all taken care of now.

Deep within a mountain cavern, a groveling Orc abased himself upon the floor. The badges of his high rank, seemingly at odds with his current humble position, reflected the dim light of torches that flickered haphazardly, struggling to burn in the dank hallways. Before him, a cloaked figure shrouded in darkness waited impatiently, his hard eyes glinting with ill-concealed malice and hatred.

"What have you to report?"

"Three of those you desire are in the group that passed through the Gap of Rohan, but they travel in a company of armed soldiers," the Orc captain said, his voice low and gravely with forced submission. "It would be difficult to take them alive, and we would lose of many of our own forces in the process. The other three are still on the Road by the last messages, and they travel without guard."

"And the three without guard are those most in need of it," the man mused with a slight trace of humor, though the news did not please him. He fell silent, his thoughts churning away through a mind as dark as night. It would not be difficult to dispatch his troops against the forces of Gondor. Most would be more than eager to test their skills against the men who had caused their exile. The two armies would meet, a great and glorious battle would ensue, there would be death on both sides, the stench of blood would rise from the fair forests south of Imladris…and none of his primary goals would be accomplished. Perhaps the Orcs could take the prisoners he desired, but the three he wished for most would not allow themselves to be taken alive if they could help it. They would sooner die upon the battlefield, and in sending his armies to fight them, he would grant them an honorable death at the hands of hated foes. No, that could not be. Something far worse had to be contrived for those who had overthrown the Dark Lord.

And yet, to loose such venom as he had prepared upon the three who traveled the Road…they were hardly worthy of its potent evil. But perhaps…perhaps this was in actuality better. Their eventual betrayal would be a great surprise, and their hands would be responsible for great dishonor because of the simple fact that none of them were warriors. Yes, therein lay the answers. The weak would destroy the strong, and the strong would be weakened by such an occurrence.

"Amass your troops," the cloaked man instructed at length, running this new idea through his head once more time and liking the possibilities it presented. "You leave tonight. Give Imladris a wide berth to the south and take the three who travel the East-West Road. And take care. No word of this is to spread to Rivendell!"

"It shall be as you command," the Orc promised.

"See that it is," the man said coldly, an unspoken threat sending shivers down the Orc’s spine. "Remember also that I want them alive. All of them. You may use them for sport as you see fit, but there can be no permanent damage or every member of your patrol shall answer to me. Now go. There is much that needs preparation, and the hour of our revenge draws nigh."

The captain nodded quickly, bowed, and left the room. Left alone in the shadows, the man who was not quite a man settled into a high-backed chair and drew within himself, summoning dark powers and darker evils. _Soon_ , he promised himself, reining in his sharp impatience. But waiting was a very difficult task. He remembered well his humiliation before the heir of Isildur that fateful day when the Ring had been cast into Orodruin. Not a word had been spoken to him by the weathered Ranger, but dark eyes had caught his own gaze and pierced his soul to the very center. He’d felt weakened, humbled, broken…such things did not happen save in the presence of the Dark Lord, and there it was expected. To be bested by a mere whelp whose only claim to fame and glory rested in an aged sword and a renowned lineage…

No, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was much more than that. He was a warrior in his own right, and he had earned his renown. The man who was not quite a man had been present the day Sauron cried out and withdrew in horror from the palantír—an event few had lived to tell about as the Dark Lord’s ensuing wrath had been fierce—and it was later learned that Aragorn had been the cause of that disgrace. Within this shrouded man’s living memory, Aragorn was the only living thing to stand against Sauron directly and survive. Such will and courage were things to marvel at. Even the bearers of the Three might learn from such daring. Sauron certainly had, but unfortunately for Sauron, the lessons had come too late. His protégé and avenger vowed that he would not make the same mistakes.

Of course, all this was merely further fuel for the fires of vengeance. Heroes of the great tales were never victorious without a price, and though Aragorn had paid much of that cost in his long years as a Ranger, the man who was not quite a man was intent upon seeing that Aragorn was forced to pay again. For that matter, none who had aided in the overthrow of the Dark Lord could be allowed to live out the rest of their lives in peace. They were marked for destruction, all of them, and the remaining forces of Mordor and Orthanc would not rest until their revenge was complete.

The cloaked figure smiled as he gave himself over to the comforting embrace of darkness, and in that smile was a dreadful promise. _Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Meriadoc, Peregrin, Samwise…you are all that remain of the fabled "Fellowship." You will be the first to taste of the latent wrath of Mordor. You shall be the first to fall. And you shall fall by your own hands!_

* * * *

Gimli dropped off Arod, pointedly ignoring Legolas’s offer to assist him, and sighed with relief as he felt solid ground beneath his feet. They had ridden hard for the entire day with but two stops, one for an early lunch and another to rest the horses in the middle of the afternoon. The rest of the time had been spent in a mindless gallop through forests, around streams, and over every conceivable bump that the lands south of Imladris had to offer. The poor dwarf was sore in places he could not even begin to describe, and it didn’t help that his elven friend seemed to be vastly amused by his discomfort. Loosening his belt slightly and letting his axe slip to the ground, Gimli stretched and attempted to walk without splaying his legs.

"Do you think Aragorn will press on?" he asked, hissing as he discovered yet another sore area.

Legolas laughed quietly and then shook his head, turning to watch the sun as it sank into the west. "I know not. During lunch, Arwen told me that it would depend upon the weather, the trail, and the horses. Arod is certainly able to race another few hours, as are Roheryn and Hasufel. But the horses of Gondor have not their stamina or speed, and we must be mindful of them."

"Can we be mindful of a dwarf while we are being mindful of horses?" Gimli asked, wondering if his spine had actually split into two pieces or if it only felt like that. He was partially convinced that a piece of his back had somehow detached itself and had been left somewhere along the trail.

"And of what should we be mindful, Master Dwarf?" Legolas asked, eyes sparkling with mirth and a hint of mischief.

"You may continue in complete ignorance as far as I am concerned," Gimli said warily, keeping a close watch on the elf. "But I would have King Elessar know of my pains and see that I am not pushed beyond my ability to tolerate my riding companion."

"And what of me?" Legolas demanded, his eyes still dancing with a dangerous amount of elven humor. "Have I not been forced to endure your company for days on end?"

"Nay, you have been _privileged_ to _enjoy_ my company for days on end, and if you cannot appreciate the greatness of that gift, it is no fault of mind," the dwarf returned, warming quickly to the game. "I have heard no complaints on my account from the guards of Gondor."

"Then it would seem that your ears are worse than I thought," Legolas said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It is beyond me how you could have missed the disparaging remarks made concerning the bundle of baggage that rides behind me. There have been complaints about its horrid smell, its foul temper, its uncouth manners, and its unseemly appearance."

"If your quiver is that bad then perhaps you should invest in a new one. I will gladly add my complaints to those of the men."

"If we are to speak of complaints, then let us—"

"Legolas? Gimli?" Aragorn moved into view, wearing an expression of exasperation while hiding his own smile at their argument. "When I gave you permission to ride with the company of Gondor, I did not think I would be forced to watch the two of you as one might watch young children."

"Children?" Legolas cocked a fair brow at this and folded his arms. "My liege, I was scouting Mirkwood centuries before your grandfathers were born. If anyone here is a child, I think it would be the youngest among us rather than the eldest. Perhaps Gimli might also fall into the category of children, but even according to elven standards, I have passed that stage long ago."

"I am 52 years older* than Aragorn, Master Elf, so let us not speak of me in terms of a child. And if we compare dwarven standards to elven standards and translate years relatively, then I am also older than you."

"Your actions do not say so."

"If by that you mean that I am still hale and need not a four-legged animal to assist me in traveling from one place to another, then you would be right."

Aragorn shook his head and cleared his throat. "If I could have but a minute of your time, Legolas, I would seek your counsel on something."

"Of course," the prince said, turning away from the dwarf and focusing his attention on Aragorn. Gimli smiled and decided to score himself the victor of that particular verbal sparring match. After all, the last words had been his.

"The horses are tired as are the men," Aragorn said, nodding in the direction of the main body of soldiers. "Reason would suggest we stop now for the night and arrive at Rivendell tomorrow morning. But you and Arwen have both spoken of a shadow in the mountains, and both of you seem anxious to move on. Can you tell me anything further?"

Gimli looked questioningly at Legolas, having heard nothing of this supposed shadow. Legolas shrugged apologetically at the dwarf and then turned back to Aragorn. "In truth, I do not know. I am not familiar with the ways of the mountains this far south, but in the north, it was only on rare occasions when the Misty Mountains were this dark. During such times, we took them to be ominous warnings of fell things to come, and rarely were we proven wrong. But now after the fall of the Enemy…" Legolas trailed off and shook his head, eyeing the mountains distrustfully. "My apologies, Aragorn, but I do not know what to tell you. You are the leader of the company, and the decision ultimately rests with you."

"What was it Frodo used to say?" Gimli mused. "Go not to the elves for advice, for they will say both yes and no. I think it went something like that. I would also add that one should not expect news or tidings from the elves, for they will only tell you what they think you ought to know. If you would know more, you must go elsewhere."

"And what do you think you ought to know?" Legolas asked. "Shall I tell you all that goes on in my mind concerning my people and myself? I have some suspicions concerning a small group of men who have moved from Belfalas into the most southern part of Ithilien, there are growing numbers of Orcs daring the pass of Cirith Ungol, your latest shipments from the Glittering Caves were a day late due to heavy rains that flooded Anduin, Faramir’s birthday was celebrated by all of Ithilien a few weeks ago, Eowyn has found a strain of athelas that is able to grow on the slopes of the Ephel Duath, the first trading party from the settlers along Lake Nurnen arrived one week ago and we negotiated a profitable arrangement for both sides, there continues to be a steady stream of immigrating elves who tire of Mirkwood and wish to live near the sea, I sent a delegation to—"

"I believe we understand," Aragorn interrupted. "Returning to the original question, is it your opinion that a threat stirs in the mountains? And how shall such a threat affect our company?"

The elf shifted slightly—something Gimli recognized as a sign that his friend was uncertain—and glanced again toward the Misty Mountains. "I know not, Aragorn," he finally answered. "If this area is similar to the area that runs along the western edge of Mirkwood, then my answer would be yes. Something evil does stir and we would be well advised to press on with all possible speed. But we are not along the western edge of Mirkwood and I do not know if this is but a remnant of darkness left over from the rule of Saruman or something else. Something darker."

"So says Arwen," Aragorn murmured. "And I fear my own senses cannot help me in this, for they feel nothing out of the ordinary. What of you, Gimli? What insight can you give?"

The dwarf blinked, somewhat surprised to be included in the conversation, and then turned to consider the mountains in question. "How far away is Rivendell exactly?" he asked at length.

"Two hours with fresh horses, three in our current condition."

Gimli nodded slowly, considering the information they had as he formulated his own opinion. "I fear I shall regret saying this," he started with a sidelong look at Legolas, "but I would not lightly dismiss elven instincts. Even if we err and there is truly naught to concern us, it would be wise to hearken to the voice of prudence. And if we arrive in Rivendell tonight, I will not have to listen to the snores of this elf or his muttered complaints when all sane creatures are sleeping."

"Snores?" Aragorn glanced curiously at Legolas. "I have not heard of an elf who snores."

"Nor has anyone else, because elves do not snore," Legolas said with a hard look at Gimli. "You woke yourself last night, Master Dwarf. I had nothing to do with it and was on the verge of crossing the mountains in search of a place where the sounds of your sleep were not rocking the foundations of Arda."

"I will have you know, oh great prince, that I have never snored before in my long life and…" Gimli trailed off and looked at Aragorn when the man started to splutter. "Is aught wrong?"

"Gimli, I remember very well a certain night along Anduin in which we were attempting to hide from Orcs and your snores kept rattling the boats," Aragorn said between laughs. "Frodo and Merry were paranoid that you would bring the Enemy down upon us, Boromir suggested drowning you, Sam was ready to beat you over the head with one of his pots, Pippin wondered if shaving off your beard might aid your breathing, and the only reason you met with no misfortune that night was because Legolas would walk over and kick you every time one of us rose to strangle you."

"As I recall, my foot was sore by morning," the prince said with a grimace.

"I should have known that you would side with an elf," Gimli growled. "After all, you married one."

Aragorn laughed and turned, his eyes searching for Arwen. "So I did. Well, enough of this. It is then your opinion that we ought to continue tonight and reach Rivendell ere we retire?"

"It is, and this opinion does not merely stem from a desire to reach Imladris quickly," Legolas said, his mood changing abruptly from mirth to concern. "It is as though something stirs in the shadows, and we are contemplated with malice. This feeling has been present for some time, but now it seems to be growing. And while I am uncertain as to its origin or its potency, I do feel that there is a slight danger."

"If such are your feelings, then I accept your counsel on this. Prepare to mount, both of you," Aragorn said, smiling at Gimli’s audible groan. "Under the darkness of evening we will cover the rest of the distance to Rivendell."

* * * *

Lindir drew his knife back against the whetting stone one more time, tested the blade, and smiled in satisfaction. Putting the stone in a pouch that hung from his belt and returning the knife to a sheath hidden by his boot, the elf stretched like a cat and rested his back against the broad trunk of a tree. Even though he was charged with guard duty this night, the evening was pleasant enough and he was actually enjoying the task. The moon was full and bright, the breeze out of the south carried a hint of warmth, and the forest was peaceful and still.

Relishing the feel of the slight wind and the teasing whispers of the forest, Lindir pulled one knee up to his chest and clasped his hands over it, allowing the other leg to dangle below the branch upon which he perched. A casual observer might have made the erroneous assumption that the elf was completely relaxed and somewhat negligent of his guard duty. Nothing could be further from the truth. Lindir was allowing his mind and senses to spread out along the path of starlight, extending his ability to sense an intruder. And while his posture might appear casual and lax, the elf was quite capable of responding to any type of threat with a speed that defied mortal sight.

For a long time he sat motionless, allowing his mind to merge with the speech of plants and the murmur of trees. Starlight glittered above, casting a silver glow upon the woods and speaking of a younger time when the elves had first awakened and had sung only songs of joy, heedless of darkness or death. A brief gust of wind rustled through the limbs above Lindir, and the branches creaked as they rubbed against one another. The elf frowned and tensed, sensing that there was change in this wind, and he began directing his senses rather than letting them drift at will. Getting to his feet and springing higher into the tree, he climbed to a vantagepoint and looked south, willing his far-seeing eyes to seek out anything that might trouble the borders of Rivendell.

As if by instinct, he looked first to the Misty Mountains. Long had they loomed as a source of trouble and doubt, and Lindir was of the opinion that their shadow seemed darker than usual this night. He could not say this with certainty, but a voice in the back of his mind had been whispering warnings for much of the day, and he’d learned to never ignore this voice. Evil still dwelt in those mountains, and if Lindir was any judge, it had actually intensified since the fall of Sauron. Perhaps it was not as widespread as it used to be, but what shadows remained were more concentrated. Darker, somehow.

Yet Lindir could see nothing specific within the hidden vales of the mountains, and so he turned his gaze southward to the dense forests that protected and hid the valley of Rivendell. His elven eyes swept wide, absorbing details and subtle nuances with an ease that a man might envy. It took only a few seconds for him to focus his attention on one particular section of the forest that lay southeast of his position. The boughs of the trees were thick and not even his eyes could pierce their shadows, but something beneath them moved. _Many somethings_ , he amended as he continued to watch. _And they move toward Rivendell._

Dropping lower into the tree, he quickly began maneuvering through limbs and branches and was soon leaping from tree to tree with the inherent grace of the Eldar. He passed as silently as the wind, and the only hint of his presence was his nearly inaudible breathing. Only another elf would have been able to pick out that sound, and for him to do even that, the other elf would have had to be standing quite near.

Landing smoothly in one large tree, Lindir stopped and took a moment to judge distances. He was not far from the disturbance now, and he could pick out the stamp of horses’ hooves and the clink of armor. It was a force of respectable size, and Lindir paused to consider the best way of approaching this situation. After thinking through and discarding several options, Lindir stepped back a bit and whistled sharply. A near-perfect imitation of a songbird soared through the night, and this call was answered in the distance by several others. Comforted by the knowledge that Rivendell would soon be alerted to its danger and that others were on their way to aid him, Lindir moved on to the next step in his plan: Delay.

Hurrying forward, he noticed with some surprise that this strange company had stopped. Had they heard his whistles? And if so, how could they have seen through the mimicry in the signals? He stopped his forward journey and listened intently. He was so near them now that he could hear voices. _Men’s voices_ , he realized, feeling his confusion grow. Nor did he feel a shadow associated with them. But…the only company of men Rivendell expected out of the south was—

" _Thia men, maethor o adarn!_ " a voice suddenly rang out.

Lindir felt a broad smile sweep over his face. They had not been expected to arrive this night, but their welcome would not be lacking due to the lateness of the hour. He quickly dropped from the trees and hurried toward them.

" _Aiya_ , _Arwen ar Estel_!" he cried as soon as he caught sight of the company. One rider dismounted quickly from his horse and came forward, laughing joyfully as he embraced him.

"It is good to see you again, Lindir," Aragorn said, nearly lifting the elf off his feet with his enthusiastic greeting. "It has been too long, my friend. Far too long."

"Even for the Eldar, years drag while dear friends are away," Lindir said, stepping back and running critical eyes over the man. "It would seem that kingship fits you well," he finally said.

Aragorn laughed at this and clapped the other on the shoulder. "Perhaps. I trust we did not cause undue alarm? We heard the warning whistles and thought that perhaps our presence was not anticipated."

"Arwen’s letters indicated you would arrive tomorrow," Lindir answered, bowing before Elrond’s daughter who had also dismounted. "And when I first sensed your approach, I feared that Orcs had set out from the mountains, and so I alerted the other scouts along the border. But have no fear! Both of you are welcome at any hour in Imladris." And having said this, he turned away and whistled again. Most ears would not have discerned a difference between his first whistle and the one he gave now, but to elven ears there were words in such a call and he now announced the coming of expected friends. Once again, more whistles answered, acknowledging his message, passing it to other scouts, and sending their own greetings.

"My thanks for such a welcome," Arwen said, moving forward and slipping her arm around Aragorn. "It has been long since I returned home, and your consideration means much."

Lindir bowed again, gratified by her praise. "For the daughter of Elrond and the queen of Gondor, I could do no less," he informed her. "But come. I will be your escort, if you will have me. Though you both know the way, I would provide you with company for the journey and so further the welcome and courtesy that Rivendell extends to you."

"We would be glad of your company," Aragorn said, turning and signaling to one of his guard. "We also have spare horses and you may ride with us so that the last bit of our journey shall pass quickly."

"That is well," Lindir said, lowering his voice slightly. "I have no direct knowledge, but rumors within Rivendell say that Lord Elladan is troubled by the mountains. Extra watches have been called by Lord Elrohir, and in light of this, I would not have us linger in the darkness."

"I have also felt this shadow," Arwen murmured. "As has Legolas." She seemed to shiver and then her piercing eyes focused on Lindir. "And what of you, dear friend? What do the mountains say to you?"

"They say many things," Lindir answered with a suspicious glance at the dark peaks. "It seems to me that they are darker than is their wont, but I know not how that shall play out for Rivendell. And their evil seems more…more concentrated of late."

"Then let us press on," Aragorn said as a horse was brought forward for Lindir. "We are weary from our journey and look for a restful night, and I doubt we will find such rest if we linger here and speak of shadows."

Lindir nodded and sprang onto the back of his horse, noting that saddle and bridle had already been removed for him as a courtesy. Aragorn and Arwen were also quick to mount and the company soon started forward. Sensing that they were nearing their destination, the horses seemed to pick up their spirits and they moved quickly beneath the leafy trees. Lindir settled himself into the movements of his horse, pondering on Arwen’s words. Others had apparently felt this strange shadow, yet it seemed that no one had any definitive answers.

"So you greet Aragorn and Arwen, but you fail to notice an old friend from Mirkwood," a voice said, startling him from his thoughts.

Lindir grinned and looked over to find that Legolas has brought Arod alongside Lindir’s horse. "My apologies, young prince," he answered. "However, since your coming was not expected until tomorrow, I had not time for sufficient practice and I could only remember how to extend a welcome to important individuals."

Behind Legolas, Gimli snorted loudly and started laughing. "And how shall we evaluate our debate now?" the dwarf asked. "It seems to me that I have won."

"He said not which of us was unworthy of consideration," Legolas retorted, throwing the dwarf stern glance before turning back to Lindir. "So was it myself or the dwarf who did not deserve a welcome befitting an important individual?"

Lindir blinked and wondered exactly what the two had been talking about before they decided to drag him into the conversation. Lindir had been present at the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen and he remembered the rather unusual degree of camaraderie and friendship that was to be had between Legolas and Gimli. It had taken a day or so to accept it, but once he adjusted, he found that listening to the two of them argue about the virtues of elves and dwarves was actually quite entertaining. Unfortunately, when either one of them began searching for third party opinions, it was usually best to be elsewhere.

"I am afraid that I do not understand the question," Lindir eventually said, hoping this was sufficiently vague enough that neither Legolas nor Gimli could use his words against the other.

"You see?!" Gimli exclaimed, sounding as though a vital point had been made.

"That proves nothing!" Legolas shot back.

Lindir decided he had given exactly the wrong answer, but there was naught he could do about that now. Gently nudging his own horse away from Arod, he hoped that proximity to Aragorn and Arwen might somehow save him from becoming further embroiled in whatever it was that Legolas and Gimli were arguing about.

"So tell me of your journey," Lindir said, directing his words toward Aragorn. "What news do you carry from the lands in the south?"

"To begin with, all send their greetings," Aragorn said, glancing past Lindir at Legolas and Gimli and shaking his head with amusement. The two were locked in a heated discussion and appeared to have forgotten the existence of the rest of the world. "Reconstruction on Osgiliath and within Ithilien proceeds, but it is slower than we might like," the king continued. "Alas, the stain of evil will not leave the land without great toil on our part. Sauron’s influence is still felt in many parts of the south."

"Yet we still progress," Arwen said firmly, throwing her husband a look that Lindir could not interpret. "And that is something, for five years ago, many doubted that Sauron could be even overthrown."

"But the taint of evil remains," Aragorn murmured, comforted only slightly by Arwen’s words. "Even the Misty Mountains bear the marks of darker days, and the elves that come to Ithilien from Mirkwood tell us that even though Dol Guldur has been cast down, its area is still an abode of evil. Alas, I fear that some things may never be fully cured."

"Your fears are shared by the elves," Lindir said quietly and with a trace of that ageless sadness that seemed to belong exclusively to the Eldar. "We feel the waning of the world, and though our time here draws to a close, we sorrow for the evil that Arda has seen. Things will never be as they once were. What has been touched by sadness shall bear that sadness always, and no act of ours can alter that."

"But there is still great joy, and not all is forsaken," Arwen reminded them. "Take heart, son of Arathorn, and you as well, Lindir of Imladris. So long as songs are sung of victories, and so long as the innocent are allowed to live peacefully in their innocence, we have succeeded. Perhaps our lifetime will not see the Ephel Duath bloom with flowers, but future generations will someday achieve such a victory and our works will have made that possible."

To Lindir’s sharp ears, it sounded as though Aragorn and Arwen had endured this conversation before, a fact that did not surprise him greatly, for he had known Aragorn as a young child. His goals had ever been among the stars, visible but unattainable, and even in his tender years, he seemed willing to bear the weight of the world upon slender shoulders. And when things went ill as things were wont to do, Aragorn’s first reaction was to blame himself.

"Lindir, when you spoke of important individuals, did you use that term collectively or specifically?"

The somber mood that had fallen upon them was abruptly shattered. Arwen lifted a hand to cover her mouth, Aragorn rolled his eyes, and Lindir sighed. "I believe I used the term collectively, Gimli."

"And there you have it, Legolas," the dwarf said with a voice of triumph. "He was not specifically referring to Aragorn and Arwen."

"Meaning what?!" Legolas demanded.

"Meaning that you were excluded from such a group and I very well could have been included. His subsequent words concerning those unworthy of important greetings were directed to you for you were the one to address him. You have been singled out as an unimportant individual."

"Very well, Gimli, if you wish to persist in this belief, let us see where it leads," Legolas said. "I, a fellow elf, a prince of royalty in my father’s kingdom, and a lord in my own realm, have been considered an unimportant individual. How, then, shall you be considered, Master Dwarf? You are the son of Gloin, and while your father has renown among his people and is a direct descendent of Durin, he is not royalty. You are not royalty. You are not an elf. If I am unworthy, what are you?"

"It is unfair to bring your lineage into this," Gimli declared.

"And by that, you mean to say that it is unfair to bring facts into this," Legolas retorted.

"Facts?! If you wish to speak of facts, let us also consider factors other than birth."

"As you wish. Was it not you who nearly refused to follow me into a cave on the Paths of the Dead?"

Gimli grumbled something that sounded far from complimentary, but it was in the dwarf tongue and Lindir did not recognize the words. Legolas apparently did, though, for he began laughing hard. On the other side of Lindir, Aragorn snorted, also understanding what had been said.

"Estel?" Lindir questioned, hoping to receive a translation.

"A common curse among the dwarves," Aragorn answered, his lips twisting with a rather embarrassed smile. "It’s meaning, though, is rather lewd. Rest assured that you would not want to have it said of you by polite company. Or impolite company, for that matter!"

"I see," Lindir said slowly, his curiosity only growing greater by Aragorn’s refusal to explain what had been said.

"Thank you for not elaborating," Arwen commented. "Elrohir once used that curse against Elladan in jest and my father overheard him. The end result was…unpleasant."

Lindir’s curiosity was now growing rapidly, but he was not given the chance to pursue the subject for the sound of galloping horses reached his ears. Arwen straightened on her mount, also hearing the approaching riders, and a look of joy infused her face when she recognized the patterns and stride of the horses.

" _Melethin_?" Aragorn prompted curiously.

"My brothers approach," she answered with a smile that would put the sun to shame. " _Noro,_ Hasufel," she cried, urging her horse ahead of the company.

"What is happening?" Gimli wondered, interrupting Legolas who’d been saying something about dwarven beards and Orcs.

"The lords of Rivendell approach," Aragorn answered, spurring Roheryn after Arwen, also eager to greet his foster brothers. "Forward," he cried, and though weary, the rest of the company obediently raced after their king, sensing that the long journey was drawing to a close.

"This means that we are close to a decent bed and a hot bath, yes?" Gimli asked, sharing the thoughts of the tired men.

Lindir smiled and nodded. "Great preparation has gone into making your resting place as comfortable as possible, Master Dwarf. We would not have you find our hospitality lacking."

"Good," the dwarf said. "You see, Legolas? They consider me and take pains to ensure my comfort."

"Yes, I see now. I’m sure the stable hands spent at least several minutes piling straw into a corner so that your sleep would be restful."

__

They are both hopeless, Lindir decided, turning his attention to the path before them. Hasufel and Roheryn were stopping and two elven horses had come into view. The riders of all four horses hit the ground running and the queen of Gondor was caught up in a hard embrace while the king was tackled to the ground. _It seems I spoke too soon_ , Lindir amended. _They are ALL hopeless. How is it that I retain a measure of sanity?_

"Welcome to you, Arwen and Estel!" Elladan’s clear voice cried as he deposited Arwen back on the ground and helped Elrohir and Aragorn back to their feet. "And welcome to those who journey with you. You make good time while traveling, my friends. We did not expect you until tomorrow morning!"

"I fear I am to blame for pressing this company onward," Arwen laughed, trading places with Aragorn and wrapping Elrohir in a warm embrace. "My excitement was such that I could not wait another night before crossing Rivendell’s borders."

"What did we warn you about, Estel?" Elladan said with a smile. "She is one to have her own way and you must watch her closely or she will govern everything for you."

"I have already taken your warning to heart, but I feel it has done me little good," Aragorn responded, grinning at Arwen’s indignant expression. "But in truth," he continued, his tone growing quiet, "another factor pressed us on. Both Arwen and Legolas experienced feelings of foreboding and distrust concerning the mountains and we were anxious to reach safe borders. Tell me, have your spies reported aught on the subject?"

Aragorn’s words to his foster brothers were low but not too low for immortal ears, and a shiver stole down Lindir’s back. The king of Gondor had more or less already confided such fears and misgivings to the elf, but they seemed to take on new meaning when they were reported to the lords of Imladris.

Lindir watched with a degree of anxiety as a strange look passed between Elladan and Elrohir, and at length it was Elladan who answered. "The mountains have troubled me," he murmured, and now Lindir had to strain to hear his words. "We have increased the guard along the eastern border, but until we know more of what threatens us, I fear we can do naught."

"But such things are ill to hear when the world lies in shadow," Elrohir said, changing the subject with elven swiftness though he could not quite change the mood of the group. "Come. Welcome back to Imladris, Arwen and Estel. You have been absent too long."

"I thank you, my brothers," Aragorn said. Lindir could see the gratitude and excitement behind the king’s smile, but he could also hear the concern and wariness that had the mountains had caused. "Though I rule in Gondor, my heart will forever lie in Rivendell."

"Then let us hasten on so that your body may lie with it, for you and your company have need of rest," Elrohir said. "Even as we speak here, beds and rooms are being prepared."

Beside Lindir, Legolas stirred slightly and Arod tossed his head, betraying a restless energy to be off and doing. "Lord Elrond’s hospitality has certainly not waned in his absence," the prince of Mirkwood said quietly.

"Of what are they speaking?" Gimli demanded irritably, for the main body of men had stopped a respectable distance away and could not hear what was being said. "You who have elven ears should be mindful of the rest of us."

"You would accuse us of eavesdropping?" Legolas said, glancing back at the dwarf with innocent eyes.

"Elladan and Elrohir know very well that you can hear them and they are doing nothing to prevent that," the dwarf returned. "Therefore, it is not eavesdropping and you are at liberty to tell me what goes forth."

"They exchange pleasantries," Lindir answered before the prince of Mirkwood could with a verbal dart. "Your rooms are being prepared for you, and Lord Elladan has confirmed that he senses a darkness in the mountains. Beyond that, they say nothing that you do not already know."

About this time, the sons of Elrond and the king and queen of Gondor began walking back toward the mounted company. Elladan and Elrohir both called their horses over and Lindir sensed that his service as an escort was no longer needed. Dismounting and giving his borrowed steed a quick pat, he bowed low before Aragorn and Arwen as they approached.

"King Elessar and Queen Evenstar, I leave you now in the hands of my lords. With your permission, I shall return to my post."

"Thank you for your company, Lindir," Arwen said, mounting Hasufel and nodding her head in the elf’s direction. "Your welcome did much to cheer me and I am comforted by the knowledge that Rivendell is still protected by the sure senses of the elves."

"We shall have to find time for quiet talk in the Hall of Fire," Aragorn added. "There are many stories I would share and many questions I would also ask of you."

"It shall be as you wish," Lindir promised with another bow. "Until then, my lords. And Legolas, have an eye on that dwarf. He shall be besting you at words yet." And without waiting for a response, Lindir turned and vanished into the trees. As he made his way back to his original vantagepoint, he heard Legolas crying out in protest and Gimli laughing loudly. Lindir smiled and shook his head. Perhaps all elves should befriend dwarves. If nothing else, it would make for interesting conversations.

So thinking, he eventually reached his post, leaped into his chosen tree, and settled back down to keep watch upon Rivendell’s southern border. He was more alert this time in part to the warnings he’d heard from Aragorn, Elladan, and Elrohir, but aside from a general sense of unease stemming from the Misty Mountains, he sensed nothing unusual.

And just beyond the range of Lindir’s senses, hidden beneath the trees by an unnatural shadow, a large company of ill intent passed by. They journeyed not to Rivendell but to something else. And for all their vigilance, the elven guards of Imladris remained ignorant of this newest threat.

 

 

*According to RotK, Gimli was born in 2879 and Aragorn was born in 2931.

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Thia men, maethor o adarn!—Appear to us, warrior of my father!

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Aiya, Arwen ar Estel!—Welcome, Arwen and Estel! (This is one of my few attempts at Quenya, so I hope I didn’t mess it up too badly.)

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Melethin—Beloved

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Noro—Ride

 

 

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Author’s Notes: Huge thanks go out to all the sharp-eyed readers who caught the nasty errors in the first chapter. I think they’re all taken care of now.

Oh, and someone asked about the Ephel Duath. The Silmarillion and Book of Unfinished Tales say the name means "Fence of Shadow" while Return of the King says it means "Mountains of Shadow." Whatever. It’s shadowy. Anyway, it’s the mountain range guarding Mordor. To get past these mountains, Frodo, Sam, and Gollum took the path through Cirith Ungol, if you want a book reference.


	3. Morning in Imladris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know some of you are waiting for the hobbits and I PROMISE that theyre in the next chapter. Its just taking a little longer to work them in, but once they arrive, theyll be playing a big role. And "man who is not quite a man" shall be returning shortly, too. Anyway, huge thanks go out to everyones who reviewed, because it really means a lot to me. Thank you VERY much!

The sky was beginning to glow with the coming dawn, and birds stirred in the vales of Rivendell, preparing to start a new day. The mountains loomed tall in the east, their silhouettes breaking the line of the sky and bewildering the eyes with jagged peaks. Caps of snow glistened as thousands of white diamonds and a slight breeze drifted down into Imladris from higher valleys, bringing with it the chill of the receding winter and the freshness of the coming spring. Life began to wake within the forests as the darkness was driven back by the dawn and night fled into the west, leaving promises that it would return when the sun finished its journey. Even in Rivendell, the darkness could never be denied forever.

But darkness was last on the thoughts of those who wandered Imladris this morning, for the air was clean and crisp and the music of dawn was as a balm to any that could hear its melody. The mountain shadows seemed a remote threat, and the elves awake at this early hour gave them no heed, choosing instead to walk beneath the trees, listen to the soothing sound of fountains and waterfalls, or, in the case of one elven prince, practice at archery.

Alone in a clearing, Legolas sighted along the shaft of a long arrow, gauging the distance between himself and the target. He adjusted his aim slightly when a breeze ruffled his golden hair and stirred the grass beneath his feet. Then the arrow was released, sailing through the morning air and implanting itself firmly on the tiny target he had selected more than one hundred yards away. With a nod of satisfaction, the elf drew another arrow and began searching for a different, more difficult target.

While he searched, his sharp ears caught the sound of light footsteps. They were not the footsteps of one who sought to walk by stealth but rather of one who was naturally quiet. _Another elf_ , the archer decided, spotting a small, hanging leaf about two hundred yards away and choosing that as his next target. Drawing an arrow, he set it to the string and pulled it back, feeling the latent energy build as he bent the strong wood of Lothlórien. At the same time, his elven hearing informed him that the intruding elf was entering the clearing. Pushing this to the back of his mind, the archer focused on the target and released, watching the arrow as it flew straight and true, passing through the leaf and lodging in the tree behind it. With that out of the way, he turned around to see who had sought his presence.

"Your skill with the bow is impressive, Legolas."

The prince bowed deeply. "My thanks, father. Your praise means much to me."

"Long hours of practice deserve great praise," King Thranduil of Mirkwood answered with a smile. "And your bow has been of much use to others on your journeys. My praise is perhaps overdue, but naught could remedy that since you are scarce in the kingdom these days."

"Duty takes one where one must go, sire," the prince answered quietly, wondering if that last statement was a reproach of sorts. It probably was since he rarely received positive attention from his father without qualifications. "I govern my own people now," Legolas continued, "and as such my time is limited. But I need not speak of such things to you, father, who have ruled far longer than I have lived."

"Nay, you do not. I understand well the constraints on a lord’s time and energy. But come, Legolas. Let us retrieve your arrows and visit during the quiet hours of the morning." He moved forward and Legolas joined him, easily falling into step with his father’s long strides. "I apologize for not meeting your company when you rode in last night. I had retired early and did not expect you to arrive until today."

"That was our original plan, sire," Legolas answered. "But the horses were fresh and Queen Arwen was anxious to reunite with her brothers. I fear we startled the sentries by arriving so late at the night, but they lost no time in seeing that Elladan and Elrohir were informed of our arrival."

"Well, at least we have a brief time together now," Thranduil said, resting a hand upon his son’s shoulder. "Come, tell me of Ithilien. How goes your work and how fare our people there?"

"Ithilien blooms as a rose in the summer, father," Legolas answered, a note of pride and accomplishment entering his voice. "Birds and friendly beasts have returned to its woods and we have such dwellings as are needed. There is but one shadow upon us, and that lies to the east where the Ephel Duath stands strong as a barrier between Ithilien and Mordor. Alas, those mountains are still filled with darkness and fell creatures. I fear that many lifetimes of men shall pass ere they can be cured of the shadow." They’d reached one of his arrows now, and Legolas quickly drew the bolt from the bark of the tree and slid it into his quiver.

"In Greenwood the Great, darkness still hovers over Dol Guldur," Thranduil said regretfully, turning as they strode in search of another arrow. "During the War of the Ring, Galadriel laid low its foundations, but where its remains lie buried, shadows still roam. The evil of Sauron will endure for many a year, and ultimately it will rise again in new form. But this is ill talk on so fine a morning," he continued with a shake of his head. "Tell me more of Ithilien. With whom do you trade and how do you deal with the many kingdoms of men that surround you?"

"As for trade, sire, we deal primarily with Gondor," Legolas answered, feeling a touch of annoyance for his father’s implication that surrounding kingdoms of men might be a hindrance. "The Pelennor fields yield much in the way of crops, and we trade them such things as wine and fabric for their wares. We also have dealings in Lebennin, Belfalas, and Dol Amroth. Prince Imrahil, in particular, has been a valuable ally." Legolas did not mention the fact that they were also heavily involved in a joint excavation project in Aglarond with Gimli’s dwarves, exchanging aid for metals. His father would not approve of such an arrangement.

"Imrahil is of the blood of Nimrodel, is he not?" Thranduil asked.

"He is, father."

"Good. I would not see you completely encumbered by mortals. They can be wearisome at times and occasionally must be reminded of who is the superior race," Thranduil said.

Legolas forced his face into a blank, non-committal expression, something that the long years in Thranduil’s court had taught him to do. His father was an elf of strong opinions and strong prejudices. Even though Mirkwood maintained good relations with the kingdom of Dale, Thranduil was usually wont to speak of its men with disparaging remarks, and that was if he spoke of them at all. Isildur’s choice to keep the Ring after the overthrow of Sauron had soured Thranduil toward mortals beyond any reasonable hope of reconciliation. Legolas’s grandfather Oropher, ruler of the Sindarin elves, had been killed in that conflict during the first assault on Mordor, and in the end, Thranduil had led home only one third of the elves who had traveled beneath his command. The fact that evil had not been wholly destroyed despite the great sacrifice of the elves still gnawed at Thranduil, and it was his custom to blame all mortals for the mistakes of Isildur, mistakes that would be forever emblazoned in his memory. He had been horrified to hear that Elrond was permitting Arwen to marry Isildur’s heir, something Legolas had tried hard to keep from reaching Aragorn’s ears though he suspected that his friend knew anyway. There was very little that Aragorn did not know.

"It was well that I trained you to seek out the weaknesses of your opponents. This will aid you greatly in your dealings with men," Thranduil continued. "I suspect you will be able to trust Prince Imrahil as the blood of the elves is slow to thin, but remember to exercise caution always. Men are known for nothing if not their treachery."

Legolas’s original annoyance was beginning to grow. Aside from insulting a Race that the prince had come to respect, Mirkwood’s king was close to encroaching on Ithilien’s sovereignty. It was true that Thranduil offered only advice, but Legolas was slightly irritated all the same. Ithilien was his realm, not his father’s, and he would decide where caution was needed. "I think, father, that perhaps you do not know the men of Gondor well enough. In them lies the blood of Numenor, and they are honorable men in both their dealings and their actions."

Thranduil snorted at this. "Númenor, you say. What good did that blood do Isildur when he took the Ring from Sauron’s hand?"

"The weakness of one is not a reflection on an entire Race," Legolas protested, stopping their walk and turning to face his father with rapidly growing displeasure.

"Speak not of things you do not understand," the king said curtly, and Legolas bristled at his authoritative tone. "You were not yet born when my father Oropher led us beside the standards of Gil-galad. You were not alive when the hand of man allowed evil to endure."

"Perhaps not, sire, but I was alive when man aided in the Ring’s ultimate destruction. The elves had little to do with that battle and the weight fell to the men of Gondor in keeping the Enemy occupied while the hobbits crept into Mordor."

"And yet they would have fallen had not you, Elladan, and Elrohir intervened. Galadriel and Elrond also played crucial roles, to say nothing of Mithrandir, whom your men, dwarves, and hobbits lost in Moria!"

Legolas felt his anger begin to creep out of his control, but he curbed his tongue and tried to come up with a safe response to that. He could remind his father that he had also been in Moria. He could tell his father that it was he who had first recognized the Balrog for what it was and that it was also he who had shamefully dropped his bow at very the sight of the horrible creature. Not that arrows would have done them any good, but he was perhaps the only member of the Fellowship with even a hope of aiding Gandalf. At the very least, he could have distracted the Balrog, yet Legolas, like the rest of his companions, had been frozen by fear. The prince opened his mouth, intending to tell his father all these things, but then he stopped. He had never been able to share his weaknesses with Thranduil, and the dropped bow in Moria still made him cringe with guilt. It would not do to admit such a lapse in courage to the king of Mirkwood. "I think you do them a discredit, sire," he murmured, slightly angry with himself for not being able to tell Thranduil the full story of what happened. "My own role in the War of the Ring was small, and Elladan and Elrohir did not join us until late in the journey."

"Which is exactly why things remained so dark for so long. Had the sons of Elrond not ridden south with the Rangers, I fear that all would have been lost."

The conversation was going nowhere constructive, and partially because of his own upbringing, Legolas couldn’t supply the information necessary to debate his father. Yet even if he could confess his own weaknesses, the chances were that it would do no good. Shaking his head with the realization that his father’s mind was unalterable on the subject, Legolas decided to drop the issue for now. "So tell me of the affairs in Greenwood, sire," he said, moving toward both another arrow and a safer topic. "I would hear of my kinsmen."

"Life continues much as it has save that our realm is now expanded and Dol Guldur is no more," Thranduil answered. "There is change in the forest, though. Many of our people now look westward as if to the sea. But the sea-longing has not claimed them yet. Still, it is a strange thing." The king cast a shrewd glance at his son, having seen him flinch at the mention of the sea. "When Galadriel and I met at the destruction of Dol Guldur, she spoke of you. I learned that you had journeyed through her realm and taken refuge with the Galadhrim."

"What of it?" Legolas asked, having a fairly good idea of where this would lead and wishing there were some way of sidetracking his father’s thoughts. _It seems a change in topics was not the best choice_. The prince hid his feelings by turning away from his father and pulling an arrow from the tree in which it had lodged.

"She warned me that your journey would take you nigh unto the sea and that the sea-longing might be stirred in your heart. I feared her words for a time, but you linger still in Middle Earth and make no effort to leave these shores. Was the Lady Galadriel mistaken? What think you, Legolas?"

"I think she knew my heart better than I did," the king’s son answered quietly, starting back for the original clearing. He did not want to speak of this.

"And what mean you by those words?"

Legolas sighed and looked away from his father’s piercing eyes, turning his gaze instead toward the cloudy peaks of the Misty Mountains. "The sea-longing does stir in me, sire. It is a steady yearning and a fiery pain that cannot be doused. I wish it were not so, but what I wish seems to be of little consequence."

"So you do seek to pass the Havens."

"Nay," Legolas murmured, his eyes distant. "Nay, not yet."

Thranduil arched an elegant eyebrow and studied the youngest prince of Mirkwood with thoughtful scrutiny. "Legolas, two of your brothers felt this longing and nothing could bar their way once their hearts were set. What holds you here?"

Legolas hesitated. His father would never understand his true reasons for staying, but he had never lied outright to the king and did not think he could start now. Diversion and misinformation were tactics he used often enough, but bold-faced lie in answer to a direct question… "I do not ask you to understand, father," Legolas said at length, "for I fear you would not."

"Wouldn’t I?"

Legolas cringed slightly upon hearing the sharp indignation in Thranduil’s voice, but at the same time, he felt a flash of anger. He was no longer a child, and his father was overstepping his boundaries. It was true that Thranduil outranked him in elven hierarchy, but protocol and tradition did not give a more powerful elven ruler the right to demand things of another elven ruler. And since Legolas was now technically Lord of Ithilien and had been recognized as such by both Celeborn and Aragorn, his father no longer held direct authority over his actions.

"You have never felt this," Legolas eventually answered, quelling his temper but making his tone slightly more forceful. "You cannot know what might bind an elf to Middle Earth to the extent that even the sea-longing can be endured."

"Then indulge my curiosity," Thranduil said coolly. They were back in the clearing now and the king of Mirkwood stopped, turning and confronting his youngest son through narrowing eyes. "What binds you here?"

"Personal matters," Legolas answered, his own eyes darkening and his voice containing a note of finality that could not be mistaken.

"Passing years do not affect my mind as they might affect the minds of your mortal friends," Thranduil warned. "You have not the ability to hide things from me, son. I raised you and taught you despite my wife’s death at your birth. Your training comes from me, and a student shall not defeat the master."

"But I am a student no longer," Legolas hissed, stepping closer to his father. "And my mother’s death was no fault of mine. Ever have you sought to blame me for that, but if there is a fault, it lies with you. Had you listened to the healer, my mother might have lived."

"You tread dangerous ground, elfling," Thranduil warned, his voice cold and forbidding. "It is as I feared. The mortals have affected your mind."

"If they have, it has been to my good fortune," Legolas shot back, his voice rising in anger. "I no longer see the world as your twisted vision would have me see it. To you, men are but toys while hobbits and dwarves are completely beneath your notice. But I have lived among these Races, father. I have traveled with them, fought with them, laughed with them, and cried with them. Men are valiant, perhaps more so than elves, for shortened years push them to progress quickly and change what they can in their lifetime. Hobbits are stubborn, loyal, and as drawn to nature as any of the Eldar. And as for the dwarves, I have never seen a Race more devoted, more passionate, or more courageous, and I thank the Valar that your veil of prejudice was lifted from me so that I might name one _elvellon_."

"You have taken a complete leave of your senses! I had hoped that the matter of this dwarf was but a rumor of the minstrels, yet I see now that madness grips you. Not only do you associate with the heir of a man who was corrupted by the Enemy despite the death of his father and the sacrifice of the elves, but you have bestowed the rights of an elf-friend upon one of the grasping children of Aulë!"

"Speak no evil of Aragorn or Gimli!" Legolas commanded, elven anger now in full flow. "By sword and axe they fought the minions of Mordor and overcame enemies that would cause one such as you to swoon at their very sight!"

"How dare you dishonor me!" Thranduil’s anger rose to match his son’s and their voices carried loud in the morning air. "And not only do you dishonor me but you dishonor your kindred."

"If we speak of dishonor, dear father, then let us remember your march on Dale and the Lonely Mountain. How did that bring the elves of Mirkwood honor? Well do I remember the Battle of Five Armies, and because of your stubborn pride, hundreds of brave warriors were lost to us that day. And for what? For the emeralds of Girion! Explain to me how such trinkets could justify the slaughter of our kindred!"

"If you think to—"

"Thranduil! Legolas!"

King and prince froze as their names were called. As one, they turned and discovered that at some point during their argument they had acquired an audience. A growing crowd of elves was gathering on the edge of the clearing. Most of them had risen in the early morning to partake of the day ere duties required their minds to look elsewhere, but now they watched the royal blood of Mirkwood closely, fearing a physical confrontation was only moments away. Separating himself from the other elves, Celeborn walked forward and favored both father and son with a look that would curl a troll’s hide.

"We gathered to Rivendell for celebrations and rejoicing. We did not gather to fight amongst ourselves," Lothlórien’s ruler informed them tersely. "If you have more to say to one another, I suggest you do it behind closed doors."

There was a moment of awkward silence during which the tension in the air became a palpable, grasping thing. Then Legolas stepped away, taking the initiative and wishing to be far from his father at the moment. "I have nothing more to discuss, Lord Celeborn. My apologies," the prince said smoothly, bowing gracefully to the other elf. "And as I am the younger, I shall take myself elsewhere so that no trouble comes of this." Straightening, he cast a final, dark glare in his father’s direction and walked out of the clearing, ignoring the hushed murmurs that rose up behind him. His mind burned with anger and he was wondering how his father had ever come to be trusted with the rule of a kingdom when a painfully familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Legolas?"

The elf froze, hoping against all reason that the owner of that particular voice had not heard the argument in the clearing. Turning slowly, he swallowed hard and summoned a weak smile. "Good morning, Gimli."

The dwarf leaned against a pillar and folded his arms, deep-set eyes watching Legolas carefully. "Is it? Judging from your expression, the morning has been less than good." A strangely predatory smile crept over his face and he chuckled slightly. "And despite the fact that I am a grasping child of Aulë, your father might agree with me in this. What think you? Should we ask him?

"Gimli, I…" Legolas trailed off, unsure of how he could possibly explain his father’s actions. "What you heard…I know how you—"

"Legolas." Gimli’s soft tone stopped the elf in the midst of his stammered attempt at an apology, and the dwarf smiled again, this time a genuine smile with a touch of sadness. "Don’t." He sighed and pushed off the pillar, walking toward his best friend. "You are no more your father than Aragorn is Isildur or Elendil. His actions are not your own. Do not take responsibility for them."

"I am sorry you had to hear that," Legolas said quietly, looking back toward the clearing where elves were still gathered.

"Why?" Gimli followed his gaze and shrugged. "My kind has never been overly fond of your kind, and that feeling is more than reciprocated. You and I carried those prejudices once. Why should it bother me to hear them? Is that not in the past as far as we are concerned?"

"I fear that elves are more bound to the past than are dwarves," Legolas said sadly. His bright eyes closed and he shook his head. "My father remembers only the failures of men and the grief that has come to our kind because of it. He sees nothing for the future and so our people diminish. They have no hope for tomorrow as they are locked in yesterday." The prince sighed and then started walking toward the house, slowing a bit when Gimli began walking with him. "I must confess, though, that I am surprised by your reaction. You are usually quick to defend yourself."

Gimli laughed slightly. "I am equally surprised. I did not think to see the day when I would listen to ill talk and stand idle, especially if such ill talk involved elves and dwarves. But then, neither did I think to see the day when you would openly confront your father. Perhaps he spoke truly in one case. Perhaps I have affected your mind, and in turn, perhaps you have affected mine. I find I am more patient than other dwarves now, whereas I perceive that you have become bolder than other elves. But whatever the reason, I did not think I should give your father yet another excuse for hating dwarves by barging in where I was unwelcome. It would not have aided your cause and might have done more harm than good."

"Your thoughts are clearer than mine today," Legolas said, glancing back at the clearing. The elves were dispersing now, but the feeling of tension and anger still lingered. The prince sighed with the knowledge that he had in part caused such a mood to fall in fair Rivendell. _And yet how else could I have acted? For I will be an Orc’s willing servant before I allow my father to restrict my rule in Ithilien_. Legolas sighed again and shook his head. "Gimli, by your leave, I would take some time for thought alone."

The dwarf studied the elf’s bright eyes for a moment and then nodded reluctantly. "If you think that best."

"I know not if it is best, but it is necessary. My mind is in turmoil, and I must sort through my feelings."

"Then I will see you at the midday meal. But if you desire to speak with me, Legolas, you have but to call," Gimli said, concern coloring his voice. "Two may find counsel where one is lost, and I am more than willing to aid you."

"I know, my friend," Legolas answered, his voice soft and reflective. "And I am grateful. Thank you." And with that, he vanished into the house.

* * * *

Aragorn leaned over one of Rivendell’s many balconies and sighed. For his childhood and much of his youth, this had been his home. He had grown here, learned here, loved here, and grieved here. There was no room he had not explored, no tree he had not climbed, and no rock he had not overturned. This was home in ways that Minas Tirith could never equal. As much as he loved the White City, Rivendell would forever be closest to his heart. Returning here always held so many memories…

It was in this protected valley that Aragorn had first met Gandalf. The king smiled slightly, remembering that day. Newly returned from the Wild, he’d been only twenty-four at the time and still struggling to comprehend the awesome responsibility of the lineage that had been revealed to him just four years earlier. Aragorn’s meeting with Gandalf had been more a chance encounter than anything else—actually it had been a rather violent encounter as it involved a race against Elrohir cut short by a painful surprise collision—but despite the inauspicious circumstances, it had marked the beginnings of a long and fruitful friendship. Gandalf had immediately sensed the burden Aragorn felt beneath the weight of his heritage—as well as the burden he was upon the old wizard’s chest—and for his part, Aragorn had sensed a much greater burden upon the back of Gandalf—in addition to Elrohir on his own back.

"Ah Gandalf," Aragorn murmured with a sad smile, his whispered words hanging in the air as the morning mists lingered still in the valley. "Whither now do you wander? I wonder if you have at last found peace. And I wonder if you know just how much your presence is missed."

If anyone deserved a rest, it was Gandalf. For long, thankless years, he had labored on behalf of Middle Earth, rallying the elves, aiding the dwarves, defending the hobbits, and advising the men. His assistance had proved invaluable and Sauron could not have been defeated were it not for Gandalf’s efforts. He was certainly justified in departing over the sea with Elrond and Galadriel. And yet…Aragorn was just selfish enough to wish that the wizard had lingered in Middle Earth a while longer. Great had been their friendship, and now that Gandalf was gone, Aragorn felt as though an emptiness had come upon the land.

"It has changed much," a soft voice whispered beside the king.

Aragorn looked up as Arwen joined him on the balcony. For her sake, he had actually hesitated before making the long journey from Gondor. One does not refuse an invitation from the sons of Elrond or the lord of Lothlórien, but in spite of this, he had still paused. Arwen had looked forward to and rejoiced in meeting with her brothers again, but she also sorrowed over the departure of her father. Returning to Rivendell was bittersweet to her. She had spent generations uncounted in its peaceful solace, and coming back stirred memories of past years. She could recall the might and splendor of Rivendell when the elves still held great power in the eyes of all Middle Earth. Imladris was fading now, diminishing to a rustic colony of lingering Sindarin and Silvan elves.

Aragorn also noted the changes within Rivendell, but his senses were not elven senses and he did not doubt but that Arwen saw and felt a great deal more. Still, even a mortal could feel the dimming of elven laughter and the fading of elven song. In losing Elrond, Rivendell had lost the protective power of Vilya. Elladan and Elrohir remained as did some of the other elves, but the First-born had departed with the bearers of the Three and their grace and power had been taken from Middle Earth. Though still great and still seen as an elven sanctuary, Rivendell was no longer as it was. The outside world was changing, and Rivendell had begun to change with it.

"I fear that time has caught Imladris," a new voice said. Celeborn stepped out from the house and sighed slightly. In the years Aragorn had known him, he had never seen him show visible signs of weariness until now. The king of Lothlórien seemed old in a way that no elf should ever seem. His silver hair still shone bright as the stars, his face was still flawless in elven beauty, his eyes still sparkled with mirth, but there was something about him…something different. Aragorn narrowed his eyes, trying to define exactly what had changed. After a moment’s scrutiny, Aragorn decided that Celeborn was tired. It could not be discerned by sight, but Aragorn was convinced that this was the case. The elf was exhausted. Weary. Perhaps his loneliness in the wake of Galadriel’s departure was too much for him, for he had elected to stay in Lothlórien while she sought the Havens. His land had held him back, and bitter had been their parting. Aragorn wondered if Celeborn now regretted his decision to stay.

"You seem troubled," Gondor’s king eventually said, watching the elf closely in order to gauge his reaction.

"Troubled?" Celeborn frowned and looked out over Rivendell, turning so that the spring breezes swept his hair out of his face. "Perhaps. If I am, I am troubled for the passing of the land. These trees, these stones…they were laid down by the elves. We depart, but they remain. And they sorrow as we leave them, for we cannot take them with us."

"But I deem the sorrow is not as great here as it is in Lothlórien," Arwen said quietly, running sharp eyes over her grandfather. "I hear in your voice that you are more than troubled. You despair."

"Despair is a strong term, young one," Celeborn said quietly. "Take care in how you use it."

Arwen ignored the implied rebuke and continued to examine the full elf. "But it is true, is it not? You despair. You weary of Lothlórien, but you did not think to weary of it."

Aragorn slid a hand around Arwen’s waist, cautioning her against saying too much. But his fears proved groundless as Celeborn reluctantly nodded, confirming Arwen’s words. "You see what cannot be hid from keen eyes and trained minds," Celeborn said, his voice soft as the wind drifting over grass. "I do weary of Lothlórien. I have something of an announcement to make during the festivities three days from now."

Aragorn frowned and studied Celeborn intently. "And to what does this announcement pertain?"

"I would be announcing it now if I speak of it to you," Celeborn replied, a hint of mirth reappearing in his bright eyes. "And did I not just say that I intend to announce it during the celebration of Sauron’s destruction and the New Year’s birth?"

Aragorn ruefully shook his head and smiled slightly. "I should know better by now that coaxing a mystery from an elf is as profitable as pressing water from a rock. Keep your secrets then, but if you have need of anything, I am at your disposal."

"I thank you for that," Celeborn said, his voice sincere and grateful. "But at the moment, I believe we have other matters that demand our attention." He turned away and looked back into the house. "You may come forth now, Legolas."

Aragorn blinked and turned. Even Arwen seemed startled. Stepping out of the shadows and looking rather embarrassed at having been caught, Legolas moved forward and bowed low. "My apologies. I did not mean to disturb you, my lieges, but—"

Aragorn waved his hand. "Skip the formalities, Legolas. We have endured too much together to be troubled with them."

The prince’s eyes sparkled with hidden amusement. "Was not the attainment of Gondor’s crown the greatest goal and quest in your life? How is it that you seek to hide from the privileges it brings?"

"Perhaps I understand more fully why you could never be bothered to spend much time at your father’s court in Mirkwood," Aragorn answered. He was about to go on, but he stopped when something strange flashed through Legolas’s eyes. Aragorn’s brow furrowed. His first instinct was to call it resentment, yet how would that relate to the court of Mirkwood? But he was not allowed to question the elf as Legolas quickly changed the subject.

"I have come to beg a request of you," he said, his manner becoming stately and royal.

"And what would be this request?" Celeborn asked, changing his tone and demeanor to match the younger elf. To Aragorn’s eyes, it appeared that Celeborn knew or guessed something of this request, but for the life of him, the king could not fathom what.

"The hobbits are due to arrive this afternoon, but we are all well aware of their propensity for losing their way," Legolas said. "I would ask that Gimli and I be sent to guide them past the Ford of Bruinen and into Rivendell."

Arwen entwined her hand in Aragorn’s, signaling him that something was amiss. Aragorn squeezed her hand slightly in response, acknowledging the message. "We had planned to send out an honor guard from Gondor within the hour," he told Legolas, watching the elf closely. "Pippin is a knight in my realm and it would be a fitting greeting."

"Yes, it would be a grand gesture for Pippin," Legolas allowed, speaking slowly and deliberately. "But hobbits have not the appetite for finery and ceremony that men do. I think they would be better served if they were met by old friends. Such an act might be more to the liking of a hobbit and would better include Merry, Sam, and his family. An honor guard is an honor primarily for Pippin."

Aragorn frowned. Legolas’s wisdom could not be refuted, but Arwen was right. Something was definitely amiss. Today did not seem to be a good day for the elves. First Arwen, then Celeborn, and now Legolas. "We could send Gimli alone or with a small escort," Aragorn answered, choosing his words with care. "You could then stay and spend more time with your father and your kinsmen from Mirkwood."

There it was again. Aragorn was certain of it this time. Legolas’s eyes darkened with anger and distaste, but this time Aragorn could identify from whence this came. It was at the mention of the prince’s father. Yet before Aragorn could speak of it, the anger was gone, concealed quickly with elvish skill and driven back into the depths of Legolas’s mind. "It would be foolish to send only Gimli," the elven prince said with a smile that did not ring completely true. "He knows the way little better than the hobbits do. He would only aid them in companionship as they all became hopelessly lost together."

"You speak truly, Legolas," Arwen said, her rich voice breaking through the tension that Aragorn had not even realized was building. "I see no reason why plans cannot be altered. What say you, King Elessar?"

Aragorn nodded, reading much in his wife’s gaze. "It shall be so. Legolas, you and Gimli are tasked with finding our hobbit friends and getting them safely here. I wish you luck on this endeavor. It may not be the most dangerous mission you have undertaken, but doubtless it will be difficult to keep the wandering, hungry hobbits from straying."

"Thank you, my liege," Legolas said with a low bow. Nodding respectfully to Celeborn, he turned and left the balcony, vanishing into the shadows of the house.

"He desires to be away from his father," Arwen said quietly.

"And he desires to take Gimli with him," Celeborn added, his shrewd eyes following the departing figure of the elf through the house’s shadows until the prince turned a corner down a hallway. "Did you hear the of the confrontation this morning?"

"I did not," Aragorn said, his eyes narrowing. "I have heard nothing of such things."

"Nor have I," Arwen seconded.

"I cannot say that surprises me," Celeborn murmured. "It was quite early and few were up and about, but I fear Gimli heard much of it, for I saw him shortly afterwards. Doubtless they thought they were alone, but…" Celeborn trailed off and shook his head. "If Gimli did not hear it then, someone will have told him of it by now. Either way, he knows what happened."

"But I do not," Aragorn said, feeling as though Celeborn was speaking in endless circles. "Nor does Arwen. Would you care to inform us since it seems to be enough to drive Legolas from Rivendell?"

"I do not know if it is my place to say," the elf answered slowly, pausing to consider the matter.

"You have already said much," Arwen observed.

"I have said only enough to alert you to the situation," Celeborn replied.

"And yet we still do not know what that situation is," Aragorn pressed.

The elven lord of Lothlórien looked out over Rivendell and shook his head. "I fear it is not for me to tell you. If you truly seek answers, speak with Thranduil or Legolas. Or perhaps even Gimli. They can tell you better than I." And with that, Celeborn turned and vanished swiftly into the house, leaving a confused Aragorn and Arwen to ponder over his mysterious words.

* * * *

"Legolas!"

Shouldering his bow and a full quiver of arrows, Legolas stormed out of the main entry hall, hoping to find solace in the outside world. His walk was swift, and before the fury of his eyes, many elves blanched and turned away.

"Legolas!"

Checking his belt to see that his long, white knife was near at hand should it be required on the journey—or in the immediate future—Legolas quickened his pace. Footsteps hastened behind him and the elf gritted his teeth. He had hoped to vanish quietly this day, but it seemed that would not be possible and he had yet to find Gimli. Still, he continued on, pointedly ignoring the voice that called him. Perhaps he could elude pursuit and circle back to collect the dwarf…

"As your king, young prince, I command you to stay!"

Closing his eyes, Legolas stopped and cursed loudly in the dwarven tongue. It was a calculated slap in the face as well as a means of venting frustration. Under Gimli’s instructive tutelage during the occasional campfire disaster or boating mishap, Legolas had learned that the dwarves were masters of imaginative curses. And right now, the elf could think of no better way to express his anger than to cry for a large dragon to arise, steal his father’s gold, and then roast his liver on a spit for its offspring.

"You will turn and face me, Legolas," Thranduil commanded harshly with barely restrained anger, apparently somewhat familiar with this particular dwarven curse.

Narrowing his eyes to slits, Legolas turned and folded his arms across his chest, the picture of defiance. "And what do you have to say, sire, that you did not say earlier this morning. For unless your mind has altered, I see no purpose in speaking to you."

"That is not for you to decide, boy!" Thranduil fumed, his dark eyes flashing with fire. "Your actions this morning were unacceptable, and you continue to act as a mere child. If things do not change, you will be returning to Mirkwood with me."

Hot rage boiled through the prince’s blood, and before he knew quite what he was doing, he was advancing on Thranduil. So sudden were his actions that the king actually found himself backing away in a bizarre and discomfiting role reversal. "Listen well, father," Legolas said, his voice low, tight, and dangerous. "You may be a king and I may be a prince beneath you in the realm of Mirkwood, but I am no longer under your command. I lead the elves of Ithilien and you have neither the right nor the authority to order my actions. I am no longer a youth, sire. I have not been a youth since my days as a member of the Fellowship, and you would be wise to remember that."

"Your words are madness!" Thranduil hissed, furious that his youngest son was speaking to him in such a manner. "Control yourself quickly or I will be forced to summon the guards and restrain you."

"You would restrain me?" Despite the situation, Legolas found himself laughing. "If you wish a contest, I will summon the men of Gondor, for under Aragorn I am able to command them."

"You would not dare oppose me!"

"Will you chance that? Come, the choice is yours, oh _king_ ," Legolas challenged, making the title akin to an insult. "Shall we have blood spilt upon Rivendell’s fair grounds?"

"Legolas!"

Once again caught, the two elves froze and slowly turned to see a dwarf standing casually off to the side, the haft of his axe resting easily between his folded arms. Thranduil stiffened in anger, and Legolas felt himself grow pale with the knowledge that Gimli had overheard them for the second time that morning.

"If we are to heed Aragorn’s orders, we must leave now," Gimli said, his voice quiet and calming. "I have already found Arod and he waits near the Ford for us. I trust you are ready and have no further business in Rivendell?"

"How dare you—"

"I have no important business here," Legolas said, interrupting his father quickly and walking toward the dwarf. "Let us depart."

"A good day to you, great King of Mirkwood," Gimli said pleasantly enough to the older elf. He bowed and then turned away, falling easily into step with Legolas. Out of unconscious habit, Legolas shortened his stride slightly while the dwarf lengthened his. To even the most casual of observers, it was clear that the two had traveled together often and were completely at ease with one another’s pace and manner of walk. And Thranduil was far more than a casual observer.

"Legolas, if you—"

"I fear we must continue this another time, dear father," Legolas called back, and in his voice was a maddening calm that only served to further enrage the other elf. "Gimli and I have been ordered to provide escort for the hobbits who will arrive this evening." And having said this, the two vanished into the dense forest surrounding Rivendell, leaving Thranduil alone with his anger.

 

 

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Elvellon—Elf-friend

 

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Author’s Notes: Okay, I know some of you are waiting for the hobbits and I PROMISE that they’re in the next chapter. It’s just taking a little longer to work them in, but once they arrive, they’ll be playing a big role. And "man who is not quite a man" shall be returning shortly, too. Anyway, huge thanks go out to everyone’s who reviewed, because it really means a lot to me. Thank you VERY much!

Oh, and thanks go out to Donna for reminding us that the Ash Mountains were the Ephel Lithui and on the north side of Mordor whereas the Ephel Duath are on the west. I discovered that on a map, actually, just after I posted the chapter. Ah well. Kudos for the sharp eyes!


	4. Evil in the Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

Darkness poured through the forests west of Rivendell, flowing from shadow to shadow and tainting the fair woods with a foul stain of evil. The free creatures of the forests shuddered and fled before the onslaught that washed through their homes. The air grew still and the trees ceased their whispers as ironclad feet marched across their deep roots. Such evil had not been seen in this part of the world for nearly five years, and all living things trembled at the thought that the shadow of the Enemy had returned. Birds took to the skies, fleeing this new threat. Deer bounded through shaded runways, anxious to outpace the fell creatures that marched behind them. Those not able to run withdrew, hiding from the light of day in the hopes that this would also hide them from the sight of evil. Rumor spread quickly that ill things were abroad upon the land, and fear rippled through the forests as might waves of water ripple in the wake of a thrown stone. All soon knew of the coming shadow, and the woods became silent and still. Nothing dared to move, and nothing dared to breathe. The trees themselves waited with frozen hearts, hoping against hope that the evil would pass on and leave them in peace. And as the creatures of the forest recoiled in terror or fled in fear, a veil of darkness seemed to drop over all. 

* * * *

Meriadoc Brandybuck abruptly pulled his pony to a halt. The animal shook its head, irritated at this sudden and seemingly needless interruption of a steady pace, but the hobbit paid it not heed. He sensed…a change in the surrounding forest. Something was different. He felt as though a shadow had been cast over his heart. His skin seemed to be plagued by a crawling cold and his right arm—the arm he had used to stab a Nazgul five years ago—began to throb slightly. A hint of darkness swept through his thoughts, and he shivered, wondering at this sudden change. It was vague enough and subtle enough that he could not say what exactly had happened or was happening, but something…something was not right.

"Merry?" Realizing that his friend was no longer beside him, Pippin looked over his shoulder at the knight of Rohan with confusion and a touch of exasperation. "Merry, did your pony throw a shoe again? I told you we should have stopped by that stream back there to look at his feet, but you insisted that—"

"There’s something out there."

Pippin frowned. "What do you mean? What’s out there?"

"I…I don’t know, but Pippin, _something_ is out there."

Slightly behind the other two hobbits, Sam caught this last remark and frowned. There was a note of fear and concern in Merry’s voice that he didn’t like. "Rosie?" he said, turning back and addressing the hobbit riding a few yards behind him. "Wait here a bit, all right? I need to ask Merry and Pippin something."

Unable to miss the slight alarm in her husband’s tone, Rosie studied Sam a bit and eventually nodded. "Go ahead, then. I’ll wait. And Sam, if possible, ask them to stop soon. Elanor needs a slight break," she said, indicating the four-year-old hobbit sitting in front of her and playing happily with the pony’s mane.

"I’ll see what we can manage," Sam answered, spurring his own pony forward. Seeing his approach, Merry and Pippin both urged their mounts ahead a bit so that Rosie and Elanor were out of hearing. "What’s wrong?" Sam hissed.

"Merry thinks something’s watching us," Pippin answered, casting a curious look at the Brandybuck.

"No, I don’t think something’s watching us," Merry corrected, eyeing the forest distrustfully. "I have no idea if something’s watching us. But I do think that something’s out there. Actually, no," he said with a shake of his head. "I don’t think. I _know_."

"How? How do you know this?" Sam asked, feeling a shadow of fear clutch at his heart.

Merry sighed, wondering how he could put this into understandable and relatively coherent words. "I don’t know that I can really explain. But I feel cold. Faint, somehow. And something isn’t right. I can sense it. Something has changed and it’s not a change for the best. It’s almost as if…I feel as though…" He trailed off, realizing that he was not making much sense and deciding to give up on the attempt. He turned back to the forest, still sensing the approach of darkness, and he unconsciously began rubbing his right arm.

"Muscle twinge?" Pippin asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Merry blinked and looked down. "Well, no, but…it hurts. No, that’s not the right word. It doesn’t really hurt. It’s strange, actually. It almost feels like it did after…you remember, on the Pelennor after…well, after _he_ came and I stabbed him and…and then…" Merry waved his hand, still at a loss for words. "Like that," he finished lamely. "It feels like that."

"Just like that," Pippin repeated slowly, studying his friend carefully.

"You mean after you and Eowyn killed the Witch-king? After that?" Sam pressed, chills of fear beginning to sweep up his spine. He silently thanked the Valar that he had left the year-old Frodo at home with the Gaffer, but the safety of Elanor and Rose now concerned him greatly.

"After that," Merry murmured, his eyes clouding.

"The woods _are_ very quiet," Pippin allowed, glancing into the forests that surrounded the Road. "But the horses aren’t spooked and I don’t sense anything unusual."

"Don’t you?" Merry shook his head and blinked, seeming to come back to himself. "Maybe it’s nothing, then. But I still feel…I feel we should travel faster. I’ll feel safer if we get to Rivendell." He stopped and frowned, going back over what he’d just said. "I’ll feel safer _when_ we get to Rivendell," he said firmly, hoping he could convince not only Pippin and Sam but also himself.

"Actually, Rosie was wondering if we could stop and let Elanor wander around a bit," Sam confessed. "But if you feel that—"

"No," Merry said with a shake of his head. "No, it’s probably just my imagination. I can never travel east and feel truly safe, I guess. Memories and all that. I’m sure you understand."

"What about just a quick break?" Pippin suggested, beginning to feel slightly edgy himself but hesitant to spread further alarm. "The ponies would probably appreciate it and I wouldn’t mind the chance to stretch my legs. If I remember rightly, there’s a clearing about half a mile down the road if Elanor can last that long."

"That would be fine," Sam assured him. "Merry, does that sound all right with you?"

"Yes, of course," Merry answered a little too quickly. Sam couldn’t help but notice how closely his friend continued to watch the forest. Still, it was only Merry who seemed to sense that something was wrong. Perhaps it was just the resurfacing of old memories. _And I’ve enough of those to send us all scurrying for cover_ , Sam thought bitterly to himself. With a shake of his head, he turned his pony and beckoned to Rosie.

"We’re going to stop after about half a mile where there’s a nice clearing," he told her when she drew near. "How does that sound?"

"Wonderful, Sam," Rosie answered, fixing her husband with a rather disconcerting and strangely piercing gaze. "And when we get there, maybe we can all speak together without worrying about what Elanor might hear."

"There yet?" Elanor asked hopefully, looking up at the mention of her name.

"Not yet, dear," Rosie soothed. "A little longer. After a while, we can stop and you can run about." Elanor seemed satisfied with this and went back to playing with the pony’s mane, babbling happy nonsense as she did so. Rosie smiled at her and then looked up at Sam. "Let us continue."

Sam nodded, turned his pony, and started off at a quick trot, following Merry and Pippin who were beginning to draw ahead. But he couldn’t seem to help darting quick, furtive glances into the woods. And now that he considered the idea a bit more, the forests did seem a little too quiet. Perhaps Merry was right. He shivered and fingered Sting, which was strapped to his belt and lay hidden beneath his cloak. Rosie had frowned when he’d put it on at the beginning of their journey, but he would not leave it aside and he was glad now that he had it. If anything sought to harm his family, they would have Samwise Gamgee to deal with.

"Sam?"

Under Rosie’s questioning gaze, Sam shook himself and smiled reassuringly, hoping to allay any fears she might be developing, though he knew it was probably too late for that. Rosie was a sharp lass, and she could plainly see that something troubled her husband. Nor did Sam think that he could hide this from her, for he was now quickly reaching the conclusion that Merry’s instincts were right. One did not travel through Mordor without developing a sense of its darkness and influence, and Sam was beginning to feel what Merry had felt earlier. There was something wrong in the forest. There was something there that should not have been there.

Keeping a sharp eye out for anything that might assail them, Sam quickened the pace of his horse and loosened Sting in its scabbard. In any case, it never hurt to be prepared.

* * * *

Elladan pulled his horse to a stop and sighed, glancing back once at Rivendell and then turning his gaze to the south, following the line of the Misty Mountains. The atmosphere back in Imladris was one of tension and brooding, and Elladan had finally consented to follow Elrohir’s counsel. Actually, it was not so much counsel but a command in one of those rare instances where Elladan was reminded that although he was the firstborn twin, Elrohir was the military commander of Rivendell and not at all hesitant of using his authority as such. Shortly after the early morning argument between Legolas and Thranduil, Elrohir had found his brother agonizing over how to bring peace again to Rivendell and had bluntly ordered him in no uncertain terms to take a ride and clear his mind.

Elladan gave a short, mirthless laugh, for it seemed to him that he could only follow part of his brother’s orders. It had been easy enough to delegate his duties for the day and ride south on his favorite horse, but as for clearing his mind…well, that was a different matter.

__

What is wrong with me?! Elladan shook his head fiercely and dismounted, allowing his horse to wander in search of tender greens. He wondered if he was upset only by the morning’s argument that had unfortunately been witnessed by many elves. Disagreements and differences of opinion were common enough among the Eldar, for centuries of life will give rise to different ways of thinking. But contentious arguments, particularly between two of royal blood, were rare, and when they did happen, it was usually behind closed doors.

But Elladan sensed that the fight between Thranduil and Legolas was not the main cause of his unease, though it certainly contributed to his overall anxiety. No, the primary source was something different. It was something far more illusive, and he wondered if it might be related to the same feeling of foreboding he had experienced the night before Arwen and Aragorn arrived with their company. Experience told him there was no such thing as coincidence, but if that was true, then where was the relation? What evil went forth in the mountains and how did it affect Rivendell? And why did his feeling of darkness and shadow seem stronger today?

It made no sense! He had felt this way when the White Council had driven Sauron from Dol Guldur, which also happened to be the same year that Bilbo had found the Ring. And he’d felt this way when the Nine rose again and cross the Fords of Isen and later the Sarn Ford, driving the Rangers before them. And he’d also had great feelings of unease the morning before Glorfindel and Aragorn—along with three hobbits, Asfaloth, and an unkempt pony—raced into Rivendell bearing a wounded Frodo and the One Ring. _So if the impetus behind my feelings is primarily Mordor and specifically the One Ring and the Nazgul, what is the source of my unease now?_ Elladan wondered, trying to quell his growing frustration. Mordor had been defeated. The One Ring had been destroyed. The Nazgul had perished with their master. What evil stirred in the Misty Mountains that could raise such feelings of foreboding and apprehension in the son of Elrond?

He was pulled from his thoughts rather abruptly when sharp elven hearing alerted him to something approaching with stealthy movements. Reacting completely by instinct, he loosened his sword in its scabbard—thankful for the ingrained warrior’s habit of wearing his baldric outside of Rivendell—and leaped into the nearest tree. Climbing quickly, his sharp eyes scoured the area and soon found the disturbance. Even with elven sight, it was difficult to make out exactly what was creeping ever closer to Imladris’s borders, but a sudden rush of evil and malice left no doubt in Elladan’s mind as to what this creature was.

__

An Orc! And so close to Rivendell. Yet…why? Orcs are not the greatest of military strategists, but neither are they so foolish as to brave an elven stronghold when it is known that many elves guard it. Elladan had no ready answers to his questions, but he did know of a way to obtain answers. Scanning the area before the hated creature and pushing aside—for the moment, anyway—his very personal loathing of Orcs, Elladan traced out its most probable path through the heavy forests and hurried forward on an intercept course.

If the Orc was quiet, then Elladan was as the shadow of death. Without so much as a hint of noise, the half-elf crept through the trees with no more disturbance than what a slight breeze might make. With his brother Elrohir, Elladan had been scouting the borders of Imladris since he’d been old enough to draw a bow, and he knew every tree and every stone. He knew where to place his feet and where to tread. He knew the moods of the forest and he knew how to blend his presence with the whispers of the plants, disappearing to all but the sharpest eyes. Another elf casually glancing his way would have been hard-pressed to mark his fleeting movements. Certainly the foul creature that Elladan stalked had no awareness of its own peril. Heedless of the hunter that moved swiftly toward him, the hulking beast continued unerringly toward Rivendell.

Elladan had now drawn quite close to the Orc, and he paused to consider his foe. Normally, he would not have waited a single moment to hurl a knife into the evil demon’s back, but the current conditions were rather unusual. First of all, this was no mountain goblin, and neither was it one of the Uruk-hai that occasionally escaped the vigilance of the Ents and wandered up from Isengard. This Orc wore a collection of mismatched armor that bore the ominous symbol of the Red Eye. _But what is an Orc of Mordor doing west of the Misty Mountains?_ Elladan shook his head, attempting to decipher this unlikely turn of events. Perhaps the Orc itself was not from Mordor and had taken the armor from another Orc. But then how had the armor made its way here? Someone or something had to have carried it. Which meant that somehow, an Orc in the direct service of Sauron had left the ruin of Mordor and made its way to the Misty Mountains.

Laying a hand to his sword hilt, Elladan’s jaw tightened as he considered the implications. He and Elrohir had kept a close watch upon the mountains since Elrond’s departure, and they knew very well that the remaining Orcs were rallying together. But they had not imagined that Orcs of Mordor would find their way into this land without perishing in Gondor, Rohan, or Greenwood the Great. Such a thing should not have happened, yet it now seemed clear that such a thing had indeed happened. And Elladan was going to find out why. This grotesque spawn of evil might possess the key to unraveling the half-elf’s strange sense of foreboding.

Without a hint of warning, Elladan sprang from the trees and slammed into the Orc’s back. The creature tumbled forward, crying loudly and cursing in its foul tongue, but the half-elf gave it no time to mount a counterattack or to even roll over. His sword swept outward and before the Orc had even completely realized what had attacked it, the tip of a blade was pressing against its throat and a foot was pressing into the Orc’s back, keeping it pinned to the ground.

"You were unwise to come so close to Rivendell," Elladan hissed, struggling to control his emotions. The idea of vengeance for his mother’s torture in the hands of the Orcs was rising to the forefront of his mind, but he pushed those thoughts away, knowing that above all else he must stay focused. "What was your purpose here, foul creature?" the half-elf demanded. "What did you hope to accomplish?"

The Orc spat an oath in the grating language of Mordor and Elladan pressed his sword down, forcing the tip into the thick, leathery skin of the neck. The Orc quieted and Elladan quickly realized two rather important things. First, this Orc was not a leader or even a particularly well-trained warrior as he was not struggling and was opting for an interrogation rather than death. Second, because he was a subordinate and a weakling, he was probably not alone in the forest. No Orc would have made it so close to Rivendell unaided if he lacked sufficient survival skills, and there seemed to be a rather pathetic dearth of those skills in this particular Orc.

"Where is your company," Elladan pressed, twisting his sword a bit for emphasis. "Where have they gone and why are you no longer with them?"

"Elf," the creature snarled, turning his head to the side so that he could see Elladan’s face. "Cursed, evil elf!"

"Answer!" Elladan commanded, driving his sword even deeper.

The Orc cried out and stiffened with pain. "West," he sniffled. "They went west."

"Where? What was their destination?"

"The Road," the wretched creature whined, feeling the tip of the blade press further into his neck. "They make for the Road. Master wants prisoners. Fellowship," he hissed, his eyes darkening in anger. "The Fellowship must perish."

Several thoughts flashed rapidly through Elladan’s mind, none of them very pleasant or comforting, but he pushed them aside and concentrated on finishing the interrogation. "Who is your master? Why does he want prisoners? What does he intend?"

The Orc snarled and began to tremble, but he squeezed his eyes shut and refused to answer. It seemed a shadow passed over his face and he moaned within himself. "Master," he murmured, almost seeming to chant the word. "Master."

"Who is your master?!" Elladan demanded.

"No!" the Orc screamed, and he surged upward in a sudden and startling frenzy of fear and anger. Unprepared for this action, Elladan had no time to react or adjust his position and the Orc impaled himself upon the half-elf’s sword. For a long moment, time seemed to freeze, and then the Orc went limp. His black blood dripped onto the lush grass below him, staining and soiling the dark earth.

With a grimace of disgust, Elladan pushed the creature off his sword and hastily wiped the blade across the Orc’s armor before returning it to its scabbard. The sword was in need of far more thorough cleaning, but at the moment, there was no time. Whistling shrilly for his horse, Elladan was soon mounted and galloping madly toward Rivendell. His feelings had been right. Something dark had been stirring and it was now headed for the hobbits. And what’s more, it seemed to be something out of Mordor. Forces had to be sent out at once to counter this threat.

Hunching low over his stallion’s neck, Elladan whispered encouraging words and urged the horse to even greater speeds. But a sinking feeling was already creeping over his elven heart. They had waited too long to act against the growing darkness in the mountains much as the White Council had waited too long to attack Sauron in Dol Guldur. It was doubtful that anyone in Rivendell would be able to reach the hobbits in time to warn or protect them. Elladan could only hope that Aragorn had already sent the planned honor guard and that they would be able to find the hobbits in time and hold off the attacking forces long enough for reinforcements to arrive. It was the only chance they had.

* * * *

"How did you know that we were to escort the hobbits?"

Startled by the sudden break in what had become a rather uneasy silence, Gimli jumped slightly and looked up at his companion. "My apologies, I was not paying attention. What did you say?"

"I asked how you knew we were to escort the hobbits," Legolas repeated, guiding Arod skillfully as the fiery horse cantered down the Road.

"Ah." The dwarf paused to collect his scattered thoughts. "Celeborn found me having a late breakfast and told me of your request before Aragorn. Since it seemed that I was included, I thought it best if I get ready to go. At that point, Celeborn mentioned that you had already stormed outside and that your father seemed to be following you. So I thought it best that I make haste and meet you before you did anything you might regret." Gimli looked up at Legolas, wishing he could see the elf’s face. "I almost arrived too late."

Legolas sighed, and it seemed to the dwarf that his friend was making a point of not looking back at him. "Your timing was good, _elvellon_ ," the prince murmured.

"My timing was exceptional," Gimli corrected. "You were threatening to attack the forces of Mirkwood with the forces of Gondor, and I arrived in time to prevent a bloodbath."

"There would have been no bloodbath; I was merely testing his resolve," Legolas protested. "I have no doubt but that he would have summoned guards to restrain me, but he would have stopped short of an armed conflict."

"So you say now, but what proof had you then?"

"He is my father," the elf murmured quietly, his voice almost lost beneath the sound of lightly falling hooves. "I learned from him, followed him, honored him, loved him, and I still love him. I know him well, and my instincts said that he would not act if such action would be the cause of bloodshed."

"What of yourself, then?" Gimli asked. "Was your resolve such that you would have called down Gondor’s guards in your defense?"

Legolas laughed quietly. "No, I do not think I would have. We are very similar, my father and I. Very similar in many ways." The elf sighed and shook his head. "My apologies, Gimli, for not consulting you ahead of time."

"Consulting me?" Gimli echoed, attempting to follow the elf’s flitting mind.

"Concerning the hobbits and the task of escorting them to Rivendell," Legolas clarified. "I spoke to Aragorn without your knowledge and volunteered your services without your consent."

"If it sets your mind at ease, you had no need to seek for my consent. I was thinking of asking to escort them myself," the dwarf said, dismissing the need for an apology. "It will be good to see them again."

"Still, I should have sought your opinion on the matter before acting," Legolas said.

"Perhaps," Gimli allowed. "But as upset as you were, I would have been surprised had you done nothing. In truth, I was worried because you had not acted earlier. I would much rather be told to escort hobbits than told to clean up your remains after you challenged your father."

"You think I would lose?"

"As adept as you are with a sword, your father is many times your senior and has far more experience. Perhaps you could best him in archery but not with the sword."

Legolas smiled slightly and shook his head. "I shall have to work on that, then. I fear I will have other encounters with my father ere our stay here is done."

"We could leave early," Gimli pointed out.

"We could," Legolas acknowledged, "but such a departure could be taken for defeat. And by the Valar, I will not have my father thinking he still holds sway over me! I am an elf, a prince, and I have more than earned the right to govern a portion of my people without answering to a higher authority. He trained me for such a task! Why should he doubt me when I choose to put his training to the test?"

"You are the youngest of your brothers," Gimli said gently, hoping he would not incur his friend’s wrath with his words. "And as the youngest, I think he will always see you as…well, as a child. Did you not tell me that your two oldest brothers fought with Gil-galad? And that was many years before you were born, was it not?"

"What of it?" Legolas asked warily.

"You do not see it yet? Think, Legolas! I know you are not as stupid as you appear to be."

"I take issue with that remark, stunted one," the elf said sternly with a sharp glance backwards, but a twinkle of mirth had entered his eyes.

"Take issue with what you may, it is true enough," Gimli said, smiling slightly. "You were born after some of your siblings had already proven themselves as warriors. You were always learning from them, always looking up to them. You were always the youngest and always the least experienced. You had the lesser skills and though you can now best your three remaining brothers in archery, it is still something that you feel must be proven. Is that not true?"

"To an extent," Legolas agreed, nodding slowly.

"But why should that be? You have proven it before, yet it is still something you doubt occasionally. You view yourself as young and inexperienced when compared to your brothers. Why should it strike you as odd, then, that Thranduil feels the same?"

"You speak wisely, Gimli," the elf said quietly after a moment of hesitation. "I feel I must overcome the shock of this first before I consider what you have said."

Gimli snorted and shook his head. "You wound me, Legolas," he said, striving to sound sorrowful. "I had thought my words of advice would be well received, but you treat them as though they are nothing to you."

"Should they be something to me?"

Gimli laughed quietly but did not respond. He was not truly in the mood for banter, in any case. The two confrontations between Legolas and his father had disturbed him, for he knew his friend looked up to Thranduil and it was not easy to see the elf at odds with the king.

"Do not trouble yourself on my behalf," Legolas said quietly, easily discerning the reason behind Gimli’s silence. "This morning’s confrontation has been long in coming. I have agreed with few of his recent actions, but until recently, I lacked the strength of will to make my opinion known. For better or for worse, that has now changed."

"Yet he is still your father," Gimli observed.

"He is, and I will always respect him, though he has not been the best of fathers," Legolas sighed. He shook his head and grimaced. "Must we continue to speak of this?"

"I think you need to speak of this, Legolas," Gimli said pointedly. "If, as you say, this confrontation has been long in coming, then you have carried your grudges about with you for many years. Two arguments with your father will not suffice."

"You think I should seek him out and argue with him again?" Legolas asked with a humorless laugh.

"If not with him, then at least with me."

Legolas smiled but shook his head. "As generous as your offer is, my friend, I fear to burden you with my grief lest all the accusations of the dwarves against the elves are proven true. Do not worry, for it is no great matter. Rest assured that elves have carried grudges far longer than I have carried mine."

"If you are certain," Gimli said hesitantly.

"I am."

"So long as you warn me before you lash out," Gimli said, shifting his weight as Arod turned a sharp corner beneath them. "I am familiar with elven speed and have no wish to be caught unawares."

"When I strike, you will be the first to know," Legolas promised with a mischievous smile.

Gimli sighed, shook his head, and the two then turned to talk of other things. Gimli still felt that Legolas was upset, but knowing firsthand how stubborn his friend could be when he did not wish to speak of something, the dwarf saw no point in pursuing the subject. Looking back later, he regretted this decision. Legolas’s latent anger was such that the elf was not giving heed to his senses. Had he done so, he might have realized that they were being watched. He might have realized that evil lurked close by. He might have realized that darkness was closing behind them, cutting off their path back to Rivendell. But he didn’t, and elf and dwarf continued to ride along the road, oblivious to the danger that observed them from the shadows.

* * * *

Thranduil was not a happy elf. A single glance at the king of Mirkwood was enough to reveal that fact, and even an Ent would not consider such a pronouncement to be a hasty conclusion. Anger seemed to pulse from the king, and he was filled with an intense rage that was comparable only to the rage he had felt shortly after Isildur’s failure to destroy the Ring. And for a life that now spanned four separate ages, that was saying quite a bit.

" _Nogoth_ ," Thranduil murmured, shaking his head in disbelief. He’d credited his son with more intelligence than to risk a friendship with a dwarf. Legolas knew of the long feud between their two Races, and while the prince had never said much on the subject, he’d clearly supported the elven cause whenever he had spoken. Dwarves were ultimately untrustworthy, and Thranduil shuddered to think of the consequences when Gimli eventually betrayed Legolas. Legolas was not an elf of degrees or partial efforts. When he gave his attention to a task, that task would occupy his mind until it was finished. When he gave his friendship, he gave it with all the long ages of Arda in mind. The breaking of such a trust might well break Legolas.

Beyond that, this was a mortal friendship. In fact, most of Legolas’s close friends were now mortals, and that was also a matter of deep concern for Thranduil. He had witnessed the effects of such bonds when an elf-friend died and left the elf behind to grieve. Such elves rarely stayed in Middle Earth but instead took to the sea, hoping against hope that they would find healing in the Undying Lands. But the sadness he had seen in their eyes ere they left…it was enough to cause even the king of Mirkwood to cringe and turn away. Mortal friendships always ended in heartache. There was no other way around it. And to watch helplessly as Legolas became encumbered by so many mortal friends…it was almost more than the king could take. The prince was a grown elf and a proven warrior and he did rule his own people, but a father’s love and concern were everlasting. Thranduil could not sit quietly by and watch as Legolas locked himself into a path of self-destruction.

With a deep sigh that bespoke countless ages and a great weariness, Thranduil sunk onto a stone bench near one of Rivendell’s many archways. After Legolas had left this morning in the company of that dwarf, the king of Mirkwood had come here in the hope of finding solace. This particular area reminded him very much of a glade in Mirkwood where a mound stood in memory of his departed wife. She had died in childbirth shortly following a surprise attack of Orcs and Wargs. The healer had been hard-pressed to save Legolas, and there had been no hope for Thranduil’s beloved Loswaia. She had died in his arms, sheltered beneath the trees she had loved and protected in the king’s firm embrace. Her last words had named their son, and Thranduil had promised to see that Legolas grew to be a son that did justice to her name. Perhaps the king had been hard on the youngest prince, but it was only to ensure that Loswaia’s sacrifice did not prove to be a vain one. She gave her life to bring Legolas into the world. Legolas would not disappoint her.

Thranduil sighed again and reached out to caress a trailing vine that snaked down from an overhanging branch and had wrapped itself upon part of the bench. He had come looking for solace, but he had found only empty memories of past years. Memories that clung to him much as the vine clung to the bench. _Memories long past even to one of the Eldar_ , he thought bitterly.

"Your thoughts run deep today."

Thranduil was not used to being surprised. He was a veteran warrior of many battles and had lived through more ambushes and sieges than even he cared to admit. But at the moment, with his mind so firmly caught in the past and his fears so concerned with the future, he had failed to track the present, and quiet footsteps had gone unheeded. With a glare that had never failed to send his guards scrambling for cover, Thranduil looked up and found himself face to face with Celeborn. The anger swiftly vanished from his face to be replaced by a look of caution.

"The spirit of Rivendell lends itself to contemplation," Thranduil answered with an arching eyebrow, daring the other to pursue this conversation.

Having fielded such looks from Galadriel for several millennia, Celeborn smiled and happily took up the challenge. It had been a while since he’d encountered someone as closemouthed as his wife, and he was eager to see if his skills of prodding and prying were still up to par.

"You were not particularly contemplative this morning," the leader of Lothlórien remarked, choosing a rather bold statement for his opening gambit.

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed and he rose from his bench so that he might be at eye level with Celeborn. "There are matters into which even you might fear to look, Lord Celeborn. I advise you to turn aside and seek no more for answers."

"You advise me to turn aside?" Celeborn said softly, and in his voice was a veiled warning to the king of Mirkwood that he would do well to remember his place in elven hierarchy. They were both Sindarin princes, but Celeborn’s marriage to Galadriel had lifted him above Thranduil’s station and he intended to use that advantage to its fullest.

"By your leave," Thranduil answered, and in his own voice was a returned threat of sorts. He was not an elf to back away and he did not obey orders well.

"I deny you my leave, then," Celeborn said. "You and your son were quite vocal this morning concerning many issues. There was discussion of men, dwarves, Isildur, your wife Loswaia, elf-friends…have I missed aught?"

"If you have a point, I suggest that you arrive at it quickly," Thranduil said, fighting down a rising feeling of impatience. "The methods I use for training my son are not open to discussion, and they are beyond your jurisdiction, Celeborn. Do not seek to involve yourself."

"I would not even think to involve myself were it not for the incident this morning. Your argument has cast a shadow upon Imladris, and you insulted friends that are here at my request. As their host, it is my duty to see that they are treated with respect and enjoy their stay. Elladan and Elrohir were responsible for inviting Aragorn and Arwen, but it was I who invited Legolas and Gimli."

"Then I question your choice in guests," Thranduil said bluntly. "Or rather, one guest in particular. Dwarves were not made for Rivendell, nor Rivendell for dwarves."

"Whence comes your hatred, Thranduil?" Celeborn demanded, pinning the king of Mirkwood beneath a gaze that had always managed to capture even Galadriel’s attention. "This loathing of men I can at least understand though not condone, but the dwarves…what great loss have you taken at their hands?"

"You surprise me," Thranduil answered. "Moria stands at your borders, and it was the dwarves who woke the Balrog."

"That may be so, but it does not explain your own hatred. Your realm is far to the north and untroubled by the creatures of Moria. Why this grief with the dwarves?"

Thranduil’s eyes smoldered with anger and he opened his mouth to answer, but the words never had an opportunity to emerge. Horns began ringing in the air, warning the valley of Rivendell and summoning the elves to arms. Frozen for only an instant, Celeborn and Thranduil leaped into action and began racing toward the main clearing along with other elves who now poured from the house and the forest. Such horns had not been heard in Rivendell since the destruction of Sauron, and all felt that a peace they had worked so long to preserve was now shattered. The darkness that had been skirting the boundaries of Rivendell was no longer a nightmare that lingered on the edge of elven senses. It was a reality.

 

 

 

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Elvellon—Elf-friend

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Nogoth—A dwarf (This particular word also carries the connotation of being "stunted," so it’s something of an insult.)


	5. Ambush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

Aragorn sighed deeply, drinking in the smell and feel of life around him, and leaned back against the smooth trunk of a tall tree. At his side, Arwen smiled and tipped her head back onto his shoulder, wrapping her flawless hand around his tanned, weathered arm. They had come here in a search for solitude and quiet thought, intending to discuss the distant shadow in the mountains as well as the morning’s disturbing argument, both having heard enough through rumors to piece together what had taken place between Legolas and Thranduil. But now, caught between sunshine and birdsong and seated beneath the restful canopy of green trees, they both relaxed into the eternal embrace of the elven stronghold, content to simply exist and watch as the world revolved around them.

"Not all beauty was lost in the passing of Vilya, _melethin_ ," Aragorn whispered, rubbing his cheek against Arwen’s soft hair. "There is still song here, though it may be more distant. But it is not gone from Middle Earth."

"I know, love," Arwen murmured, closing her eyes and allowing Aragorn to pull her closer. "This land has seen great darkness and great evil, and ever has it endured. It shall take more than the passing of the elves for its song to fade, or such is my hope. Yet you cannot deny, Estel, that there is a sadness here. A note of discordant harmony that does not ring true. And while it may be that for elves there is always a touch of sadness, it is greater now. Stronger and more pervasive."

"Alas that all things must fade," Aragorn murmured. "I fear that in defeating a great evil, we have lost much. It is a grievous price that we have paid, and it seems to me that your people are still paying much of the cost."

"Our time is over," Arwen sighed. "We battled the Enemy for many years and with our victory comes the price for our vigilance. We exhausted our strength so that man might have a world free from the treacheries of Sauron. It was something we did gladly and of our own volition, but now that the end has come, we taste the bitter dregs that are our reward."

Aragorn could think of nothing to say in response to that, and instead pulled Arwen even tighter against his solid form, trying to impart comfort through touch rather than through words. In response, Arwen relaxed slightly and some of the sorrow seemed to drain away. The day became brighter, the birds became more cheerful, and the breeze in the treetops whispered quiet words that soothed the soul and lulled the mind. For one fleeting yet eternal moment, it seemed that all was right with the world.

The moment did not last long. The peaceful solace was abruptly shattered by a horn sounding from the north. Frozen for only a moment, both Aragorn and Arwen shot to their feet and began running, listening with fearful dread as even more horns began to sound. Breaking away from their sheltering grove of trees, they made for the main porch where all others would be gathering to receive news and instruction. Elves were now running all around them and Aragorn saw some of his own guards following the rest toward the house.

"Estel! Arwen!"

"Elrohir! What madness is this?" Aragorn demanded, slowing his pace as his foster brother came up behind him.

"In truth, I know not. The only news I have been able to gather is that the scouts along the northern boundaries have been attacked by a large company of Orcs, but how many beset us or what their intentions may be, none here can say." Elrohir’s head suddenly whipped around and he slowed his pace. " _Aerhen! Man siniath od e forn_?"

An elf appeared at his side, sketched a running bow, and answered quickly. " _Yrch, brannon! Law istin gwenyd tîn, dan doegm danar ar e coth dadar norn_."

"My liege! What orders?"

Aragorn turned as Imhran, his second-in-command, reached his side and the king noted that most of Gondor’s men were gathering around him. He signaled them onward with a nod and a quick hand gesture, promising information once they stopped. Reaching Rivendell’s main porch, which had served as a meeting place for the White Council and eventually the council that had formed the Fellowship, Aragorn stopped and beckoned his men closer.

"Rivendell is under attack from Orcs along its northern border. None know the number of the attackers, but the elves are in retreat. We shall join our forces with theirs. Ready your weapons and await my commands." Turning away from his men, Aragorn’s eyes met Arwen’s as a silent query passed between them and she nodded quickly.

"I shall find the rest and direct them here," she said in answer to his unspoken question. "Go now, my brother bids you join him."

Aragorn smiled a quick thanks and turned, moving quickly to Elrohir, who was continuing to receive the reports of scouts sent into Rivendell with news. "They say fifty, possibly more," Elrohir murmured as Aragorn joined him. "Certainly not enough to take Rivendell, but it is sufficient to harry the scouts and force us into battle. What think you?"

"Something in this is not right," Aragorn said, going over the situation with the practiced scrutiny of one who has fought the enemy for years. "Orcs prefer to attack in vast numbers. They would not challenge Rivendell without a host many times greater than ours. They are cowards at heart and need the strength in numbers to counter their fear of death."

"Your thoughts are mine," Elrohir said, his voice quiet and contemplative. He was a point of calm amidst the continuing horns and cries of the elves and men around them. "Still, I see no alternative but to engage them. We will let them play their game and then we shall trap them with it."

"What goes forth here?"

Elrohir and Aragorn turned to find Celeborn and Thranduil striding toward them. Celeborn nodded a quick greeting at Aragorn, but Thranduil ignored the king of Gondor completely, something that Aragorn had grown use to over the years. Even when he had entered Mirkwood with the captive Gollum, he had been paid no more attention than what common courtesy required, and neither he nor Thranduil had been sad to part company. It appeared that in this regard, things had not changed, and Aragorn began to understand a little better what had driven Legolas to lash out at his father.

"Orcs attack our northern borders," Elrohir answered with a short bow to Celeborn and a respectful nod at Thranduil. "If you would be willing to aid our cause, it would be appreciated."

"The forces of Mirkwood are at your disposal," Thranduil promised.

"The Galadhrim have always stood with Imladris," Celeborn added proudly.

"I thank you," Elrohir said. "If you would, I ask that you leave half of your elves here under an able commander, for this attack is strange and I like not what it may portend. We shall ride into battle as the head of a spear. Rivendell’s own soldiers shall form its tip with Lothlórien and Gondor on the right and Mirkwood on the left. Summon your armies and let us ride to meet the foe."

"Elrohir!"

A voice rising above the din arrested Elrohir even as he turned to order his own companies, and Aragorn quickly swung around to find Elladan riding hard through the gathering elves in a frantic effort to reach the collection of leaders who stood in the middle. From the expression on the half-elf’s face, he did not bear good news. The sight of gathering elves armed with arrow, sword, and spear seemed to increase his alarm and he swung off his horse so suddenly that Aragorn had to step forward and brace the normally graceful Elladan.

"Estel, quickly!" Elladan said, fixing his piercing gaze on his foster brother and gripping his shoulders as he steadied himself. "How long ago did you send out the honor guard to greet the hobbits?"

A warning bell deep within Aragorn’s consciousness went off and an ominous shadow began to grip at his heart, but he pushed such things aside, intent on discovering what had so upset Elladan ere he turned his mind to other matters. "We sent no honor guard," he answered, watching the half-elf closely. "Legolas asked that he and Gimli be given leave to escort them. They left some time ago."

Aragorn could remember only a few instances in which Elladan had been at a loss for words. He could now add yet another mark to that tally. Elladan stared at him with open horror as though Aragorn was slowly mutating into a small oliphaunt.

"Elladan!" Elrohir broke through his brother’s trance as he stepped to their side, and the name seemed to galvanize the older twin into action.

"We must act swiftly!" Elladan commanded, turning his eyes to Elrohir, Celeborn, and Thranduil. "A company of Orcs has passed south of Rivendell and is seeking to make prisoners of the hobbits. Hurry and order your forces, for we must ride immediately!" So saying, Elladan turned and made as though to mount.

"Whence came this information?" Elrohir demanded, seizing his brother’s arm and holding him back.

"I found a lone Orc far south of our realm," Elladan said, a note of frustration entering his voice as he was made to stop and explain himself. "I forced words from him and he confessed that he was part of a larger party sent to capture the hobbits. But there is no time for further explanations. We must ride and speak as we travel. We can afford no delay!"

"Delay…" Aragorn repeated, his eyes moving to the north. "The attack upon Rivendell is only a delay. A distraction. That is why they attack in such small numbers. The bulk of their force is upon the Road."

"What is this about an attack upon Rivendell?" Elladan demanded, jerking out of his brother’s grasp.

"Our scouts to the north have been driven back," Elrohir explained, thinking quickly. His eyes narrowed as he turned with Aragorn to look to the north. "We must meet them with sufficient force to drive them back, but the hobbits…we cannot leave them to be taken. And if they ride swiftly, Legolas and Gimli will join them only to share in their fate."

"The force that defends Rivendell can stagger its companies to both protect the heart of Imladris as well as meet the Orcs that threaten the border," Celeborn said. "Such a strategy has been used before with success in Lothlórien."

"So be it," Elrohir said. "Celeborn, you will command the forces here. Elladan, Thranduil, and Aragorn shall ride for the hobbits."

"Nay, brother. I shall stay here and you shall ride," Elladan countermanded. "The defense is ordered in this valley, but upon the Road, the strategy will change swiftly and you have a better gift for that than do I."

"Whatever we do, we must do it now," Aragorn warned. "I shall prepare Gondor and the Galadhrim since it seems that Celeborn will not be with us. We shall rendezvous at the Ford. Choose who will lead Rivendell and then join us quickly." Saying this, he left the group and turned to his men, quickly finding Imhran in the gathering masses. Dividing his forces into two groups, he left Imhran in charge of the Rivendell contingent with orders to heed Celeborn’s word while sending the rest of them to the stables in search of horses. Seeing that all was in order, he quickly hurried after them, dark thoughts racing through his mind. It seemed that evil was never vanquished, and that there was no such thing as a complete victory. Despite the destruction of the One Ring, fell things still haunted the world.

"Elessar!"

Aragorn slammed to a halt and turned, blinking as his sharp eyes found Arwen and a saddled Roheryn. "How did you—"

"I met our men on the way to the stables," she explained, leading the horse forward and handing the reins to the king. "It seemed to me that you were in need of haste. Go now. Find our friends and bring them home."

"You are a wonder, Undómiel," Aragorn whispered, his eyes sparkling with gratitude.

"As are you. Speed, now, my husband," she murmured, drawing him to her for a quick kiss ere she moved away. "And let safety guide you."

"Until my return, _melethin_ ," Aragorn said, swinging into the saddle and feeling Roheryn’s restless excitement as the stallion perceived that they were once again on the hunt. Casting one last look at the radiant daughter of Elrond, Aragorn marveled that he had somehow won her heart, and then he turned away as he had done so many times in the past. Spurring Roheryn forward, he could not help but be reminded of the long years as a Ranger when duties forced him away from Rivendell. Arwen had always been the last to see him off and he had always looked last upon her figure before returning to the Wilds that had become a second home. With a shake of his head, Aragorn forced his memories into retreat, turning his mind to the present and running possible riding formations through his head in preparation for what lay before him.

Roheryn needed little guidance as they thundered away from the Last Homely House, for the horse had ridden this trail countless times before and knew the terrain nearly as well as did Aragorn. It was not long before their hard gallop brought them to the Ford and he reined the horse tightly, watching as the men of Gondor began riding toward him from the stables. Not more than a minute or so later, Elrohir, Thranduil, and a large host of elves joined them. And as was his wont in times of crisis, Elrohir lost no time in taking control of the situation.

"By your leave, Estel, I have directed the Galadhrim to ride with Gondor, for neither of your companies is large enough to stand on its own," Elrohir hurriedly informed him. "You shall be upon the right, the elves of Imladris shall take the center, and Thranduil shall lead his elves upon the left. We ride abreast of one another as much as possible, and where circumstances dictate this cannot be, Mirkwood shall drop back so that we might better protect their archers. More plans we cannot make for Elladan knew not the number or the strength of those we ride to fight."

"As you advise, brother," Aragorn said, backing Roheryn up and turning the horse so that he might muster his riders.

"Is all in readiness?" Elrohir called after the forces were quickly arranged.

All was in readiness, and Aragorn felt a quick surge of pride for the discipline of Gondor’s guards that had enabled them to quickly fall into formation with the Galadhrim. Elrohir’s calculating eyes swept the assembled warriors and then he nodded. Crying aloud, the son of Elrond turned his horse into the Ford and raced away at a hard gallop. With yells to their horses, the elves and men followed him, passing quickly through the rushing waters and vanishing swiftly into the forests beyond the borders of Rivendell.

* * * *

Peregrin Took snapped a pair of hobbles to his pony’s legs and gave the beast a friendly slap, sending him to graze in the large clearing that lay adjacent to the Road. A yawn opened the hobbit’s mouth wide and he stretched luxuriously, enjoying the feel of soft grass beneath his feet again. Ponies were fine for traveling, but walking on one’s own two legs was a welcome change after a long ride. Maybe the dwarves were right to prefer travel by foot, though even they would also use a pony for long journeys. _Well, one thing is certain_ , Pippin thought. _I shall never be as one of the Rohirrim. They practically live in the saddle!_

"Coming, Pippin?" Merry called.

"Half a moment," Pippin called back, seeing that Rosie was already beginning to pass out apples. Quite possibly the most attractive quality of halts during the journey was the prospect of food. And not the meager rations that Strider had limited them to on their journey to Rivendell over five years ago. These were _hobbit_ rations, which meant they might very well serve as a full-course meal for a member of a difference Race. "Are you really so hungry that you could not wait any longer for me?" Pippin demanded when he reached the others.

"Oh, you’ve nothing to complain about, Pippin!" Sam laughed, tossing his friend an apple and handing over a water skin and a plate of salted meat. "We did save some for you, after all."

"Not nearly enough," Pippin said, staring sorrowfully at his dish. "I shall waste away to nothing if this keeps up. I wonder if there isn’t some foul plot among you to see me collapse by the Road."

"What in the Shire could we hope to gain by such a plan?" Rosie asked, keeping a close watch on Elanor as the child skipped and danced among the early-blooming wildflowers.

"I do not know, but I won’t trust any of you," Pippin stated. "I don’t doubt but what our genial Samwise has some conniving idea about snatching the remainder of the rations from those of us who don’t take care and keep our wits about us. Well, I’m on to you, Sam," Pippin continued, taking a huge bite out of his apple. "You won’t catch this hobbit sleeping, and if there’s more food to be had, I’ll have it!"

Sam shook his head and went searching through another saddlebag. "If you’re interested, some of Rosie’s traveling cakes are leftover from yesterday’s dinner," he offered.

"I’m interested," Merry piped up.

"You’re both in the conspiracy!" Pippin accused.

"You’re clearly losing what little sense you ever had," Merry returned, taking the saddlebag from Sam and pulling out a rather crumpled-looking traveling cake. He made a cursory inspection of the bag’s interior and then set it aside. "There are two more in there," he informed them. "So I guess that some of us will have to do without."

"I’ll do without," Rosie volunteered, rising and turning to go after Elanor who was beginning to wander a little too far away for her mother’s comfort. "And so long as you don’t mention those cakes to Elanor, I’m sure that she can do without as well."

Merry frowned and chewed on his own cake thoughtfully. "Well, that doesn’t sound very fair. Isn’t there some rule or other about women and children being fed first?"

"And into which category do you fall?" Pippin asked.

Merry shrugged and gave his friend a cheeky grin. "Pick one."

"I think you were right about that conspiracy, Pippin," Sam said, giving Merry a rather dirty look. "But I’m not in it." He seemed about to go on, but he stopped and looked toward the Road, his face taking on a look of intense concentration.

"Sam?"

Sam rose to his feet slowly, took one step toward the Road, and then swung around and called to his wife who had finally managed to corral Elanor. "Rosie, head for the trees!" Startled at first but hearing the urgency in her husband’s voice, Rosie obediently scooped a protesting Elanor into her arms and hurried toward the shelter of the forest.

It was then that Pippin heard the noise that had already alerted Sam. Faint but unmistakable, there came the sound of a horse galloping down the Road toward the hobbits. And though there was nothing to indicate that this rider might mean them harm, Merry’s earlier warnings about a darkness in the woods had set them all on edge. Loosening his blade in its scabbard, Pippin moved closer to Merry and Sam, taking comfort in the relative safety of numbers.

"Who do you suppose it is?" he asked, listening closely as the horse drew near.

"It could be anyone," Merry answered, pulling his sword from its scabbard. "It could be someone from Rivendell sent as an escort or maybe just a traveler making use of the Road. But with this darkness in the forest…I still don’t know how to describe it. But something is near. Something evil and we mustn’t be caught unprepared. It might not be this rider, but then again, it might be. I just can’t tell."

"The horse sounds too heavy to be an elven horse," Sam said, putting his sharp ears to good use. "Its stride is long enough, but the weight is off. It’s hitting the ground too hard."

"Well, we shall know soon if this rider has aught to do with us," Pippin warned, laying a hand to his sword hilt but not drawing it yet. Merry might be feeling anxious but Pippin saw no reason to be the one looking for trouble, and a naked blade was usually interpreted as an invitation.

The hobbits now waited in silence, watching and listening carefully. Merry shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and moved one foot back, looking as though he intended to lunge the moment the rider came into view. Sam appeared to be keeping a level head, though if he kept throwing such obvious glances over his shoulder, he would give his family’s position away. Pippin shook his head. To his mind, they were all overreacting, but past experiences in the Wild had taught them to expect the unexpected. More often than not, the expected was the exception rather than the rule. Still, they were very close to Rivendell and the only creatures they were likely to meet at this point in the journey were—

"Legolas!" Merry cried as a fiery horse from Rohan cantered into view. "Gimli!"

__

Elves, Pippin finished his thought, securing his sword in his scabbard and hurrying forward to greet their friends. _And one dwarf._

Legolas had spied the hobbits even as the hobbits found him, and the elf now sent Arod into the clearing, slowing him to a walk and smiling at the excitement their coming created. "Gently now, or there shall be none of us left to return to Rivendell," Legolas cautioned with a laugh as he dismounted and was nearly mobbed.

"And what of the stout-hearted dwarf who kept our Fellowship grounded despite the whimsies and fancies of this elf?" Gimli demanded, dropping off the horse with an audible thud.

"Gimli, we would never have made it without you," Pippin exclaimed, wrapping the dwarf up in a warm hug which Gimli returned awkwardly.

"Well now, that’s better," he said, pulling away slightly and evaluating the hobbit with critical eyes. "I see you do not want for food in that Shire of yours," he added with a smile.

"Of course we do not!" Sam exclaimed. "And why shouldn’t we feast, seeing as we practically starved ourselves for six months while wandering around with beings who didn’t seem to think that eating was important. It’s beyond me how any of you can grow so tall when you never take the time to properly feed yourselves."

"Sam?"

A questioning call from the forest caught their attention and Sam quickly blushed and turned to the trees. "It’s alright, Rosie. Bring Elanor and hurry. There’s friends here that I want you to meet."

"Now that’s what you need, Legolas," Gimli said, nodding toward Sam’s wife who now walked forward with a young girl in tow.

"A hobbit?" the elf mused with a perfect deadpan expression. "What in Arda’s name would I do with one?"

"No, you beardless wonder! You need a wife!"

"Ah, a wife." Legolas smiled and shook his head. "Gimli, I have all the ages of Middle Earth to concern myself with that. You, however, do not, and I fear that I must aid you in the search for a companion ere I look to my own needs."

Sam cleared his throat and shot a reproving glare at both elf and dwarf, silently pleading with them to at least tone down their banter for the moment so as not to frighten Rosie and Elanor. He stepped forward to his wife and child who had just now joined them and turned to present them to his friends, looking for all the world like a king announcing the entrance of his queen and his heir. "Legolas, Gimli, I’d like you to meet my wife, Rose Cotton Gamgee, and my oldest child, Elanor. Rosie and Elanor, this is Gimli, son of Glóin, from the Lonely Mountain and Legolas, son of King Thranduil, from the forest of Mirkwood." Sam stopped and frowned. "Except that it’s now Greenwood, isn’t it?"

"Call it what you will, Sam," Legolas said with an easy laugh. "In some places, the name Mirkwood is probably still more fitting than the name Greenwood the Great." The elf then turned to Rosie and Elanor and bowed deeply and elegantly, calling into play his long and many years as a prince in Thranduil’s court. "It is my honor to meet the family of one so renowned and honored as the valiant Samwise, son of Hamfast."

Rosie shuffled her feet and looked rather embarrassed to be having a prince bow before her. By contrast, Elanor laughed and clapped her hands while Gimli snorted and would have pushed the elf over had Sam not sent yet another pleading look in his direction. Not to be outdone, the dwarf bowed in turn. "Gimli, son of Glóin, at the service of you and your family."

Pippin noted that Rosie was favoring both Legolas and Gimli with a look that seemed to straddle the border between curiosity and distrust, which was quite understandable. Being a very sheltered hobbit, this was the first time she’d ever met an elf, and she’d never had much contact with dwarves. Elanor, on the other hand, seemed to have none of her mother’s compunctions about these strangers and wandered forward with her eyes fixed on Gimli’s beard. Gimli stood completely still with an expression of patient amusement, and Elanor slowly reached out and tugged gently on the beard. Her brow furrowing, the four-year-old looked back at her father with question-filled eyes. "Bush?"

Legolas nearly fell over laughing. Pippin tried to smother his own mirth but eventually decided there was no point in doing so because Merry was already helplessly clutching his sides and seemed only moments away from breaking something with the force of his laughter. A smile tweaked the corners of Rosie’s mouth and Sam looked as though he had swallowed something extremely sour for as much effort as he put into keeping his face from breaking into a grin.

For his part, Gimli sent a dark glare at Legolas—who was now leaning against a confused Arod for support—and then turned back to Elanor. "Not quite," he said, kneeling so that the young hobbit could better see him. "This is a symbol of great power and strength. Those who are able to grow such wondrous things are sometimes mistaken for messengers of the Valar."

"Gimli!" Legolas reprimanded in between gasps for air. "Would you teach this child blaspheme?"

"Nay, dear friend, I would teach her the truth," Gimli answered flippantly, picking Elanor up and standing. The young hobbit wrapped her hands in his thick beard and giggled, tugging slightly on it. "You see your father?" the dwarf asked, nodding toward Sam who stood shaking his head in amusement. "He is a great hobbit, young one, but he must become greater still if he wishes to grow one of these. And as for the elf over there, well, I do not think he will ever be able to manage something of this magnitude."

"And may I be struck dead if ever I do," Legolas laughed.

"Can I grow one?" Elanor asked, her innocent eyes searching the dwarf’s dark ones.

"Only if you commit yourself now to follow a course of courage, strength, and honor," Gimli answered, his voice so solemn and his face so serious that it brought further peals of laughter from the onlookers. "If you do so, you, too, will be able to grow a beard as fine as mine."

"I have reconsidered, Gimli," Legolas said, trying desperately to control his convulsive laughter. "I feel you should now forsake women entirely, for if you were to be given offspring, you might very well bring about the downfall of Middle Earth."

"Well, let’s be off," Sam interrupted before Gimli could respond to that. "I’m guessing that you’re here to guide us to Rivendell, right?"

"Yes, you have guessed rightly, Master Samwise," Legolas answered, shaking his head as he watched Gimli continue to speak quietly with Elanor. "I now wonder if bringing the dwarf was a good idea, but as such, we are your escort."

"We wouldn’t want anyone else for an escort," Pippin told the elf sincerely. It had been almost five years since he’d last seen either Legolas or Gimli, and he’d forgotten how much he’d enjoyed their company.

"You accompanied my husband on his journey?" Rosie asked curiously, getting over her initial suspicion as she watched Elanor giggle at something Gimli was whispering.

"For the first stage of his travels, yes," Legolas answered. "We were parted, though, and I fear that his was the harder road. You are married to a hobbit of great renown, Rose Gamgee, for through his actions a great evil was finally banished from Middle Earth."

"I don’t know about that," Sam said with a look of extreme embarrassment. "And shouldn’t we be starting toward Rivendell if we want to arrive with time to get settled?"

"Yes, let’s get going," Merry added. "I can’t wait to see Strider and Arwen again. It’s a shame that Eowyn and Faramir couldn’t join us, but I suppose you can’t bring everyone out of Gondor. And with Isengard and Orthanc and the problems with Orcs they’ve been having, I guess you really can’t spare Eomer, either."

"They all wanted to come," Gimli said, finally tearing his attention away from Elanor who still had her small hands entwined in his beard. "And they send their greetings to you. But even I was hard-pressed to leave the Glittering Caves with all that goes forth there, and Legolas was almost prevented from coming as well. None of his kinsmen journeyed with him."

"There is much to be done in Ithilien ere we can truly call it home," Legolas said with a small shrug. "But I decided that I could be spared from the work for a few weeks."

"I can’t imagine a celebration without either one of you," Pippin said. "But Merry’s right. We should get going."

"Sam, I wonder if this little hobbit might like to ride with me for a bit," Gimli said, watching as Elanor began separating his beard as though preparing to plait it. "It might do her some good to be close to a dwarf, though I worry about the elven influence that comes with it."

"It’s fine with me so long as Rosie agrees," Sam answered, moving to retrieve their ponies.

"She can be a handful," Rosie cautioned, appearing to be somewhat leery of allowing Elanor to be cared for by these strange beings. "I wouldn’t want you to feel obligated."

"She will be safe upon Arod," Legolas assured her with a knowing look and an understanding smile. "And though his appearance may frighten you, rest assured that Gimli is quite harmless." The elf smiled when the dwarf grumbled slightly at this, but his smile suddenly faltered and he seemed to tense. Pippin felt a chill run up his spine, for he recognized that position. Legolas sensed something. Something unfriendly.

"Legolas?" Merry asked, also recognizing the look.

"We must go," the elf murmured, still watching the forest carefully. With a shake of his head, he called to Arod who had wandered away in search of grass. The horse came immediately, hearing urgency in the elf’s tone. "Gimli, hand me Elanor and then I will hand her up to you," Legolas instructed. "The rest of you, mount quickly. Let us not tarry here."

Having learned from experience that questions would only delay them, Pippin reigned in his curiosity and hurried to do as the elf bid. Merry and Sam joined him quickly and Rosie had no choice but to hurry after them, though she wondered about the cause of the sudden fuss. Before long, they were all back in the saddle and moving down the Road at a swift trot. Legolas kept Arod behind them, scanning the forest to either side with the wary scrutiny of an elf who has reason to distrust his surroundings. Pippin could hear Gimli hushing Elanor and speaking gentle words, and had he not been so fearful, he might have smiled at the dwarf’s interest in the child and offered some jest. But now was hardly the time for it, so he kept such thoughts to himself and vowed to catch Gimli with them at a later time. He could even ask Legolas for tips on how to structure his insults.

Unfortunately for Pippin, his train of thought was rudely interrupted when his pony abruptly reared beneath him, sending him tumbling to the ground. Sam’s pony also threw him from its back. Scrambling to his feet, it didn’t take him long to discover the reason for his pony’s fright. Ahead of them, streaming from the woods like a dark flood of evil, came line after line of Orcs.

"Back! Turn and flee!"

Pippin wasn’t sure who gave the order. He suspected Legolas or perhaps Merry, but with the jeers and yells of the Orcs now ringing in his ears, he couldn’t be certain. Seizing his pony’s halter, Pippin swung back on, trying vainly to keep himself from trembling. Memories of his time as a captive of the Orcs swarmed through his mind, and it was all he could do to stay focused on the present. He was relieved to see that Merry and Rosie had both retained control of their ponies and were turning them even as Sam remounted.

"Pippin! Take Elanor!"

The hobbit glanced up just in time to see Arod bearing down on him, and then Elanor was dropped into his lap. Bewildered, Pippin wrapped his arms around the squirming four-year old and then looked back at Legolas and Gimli, his eyes filled with questions.

"Ride!" Legolas yelled as Gimli dropped off the horse and swung his axe about, preparing to meet the onslaught. The elf pulled an arrow from his quiver and urged Arod forward even as he began to shoot.

Pippin didn’t have to be told twice. Much as he longed to aid his friends, he knew they would only hold the Orcs at bay long enough to give the hobbits a chance to escape. After that, Legolas and Gimli would seek their own safety, and they were both quite adept at taking care of themselves. Spurring his pony forward, he quickly caught up with Merry, Sam, and Rosie. "They’re going to hold them for us!" he shouted to Merry who looked as though he wished to ride back. "Hurry, we have to use their distraction now!"

But even as he said these words, Sam suddenly cried out and reigned his pony in hard. Pippin, Rosie, and Merry were hard-pressed to avoid him and their ponies skidded and reared as they attempted to evade a collision. When the dust settled, the icy hand of fear settled permanently over Pippin’s heart. A party of Orcs was marching in from the west, cutting off the road to safety and making straight for the hobbits.

They were surrounded.

 

 

 

__

Melethin—Beloved

__

Aerhen! Man siniath od e forn?—Aerhen! What news from the north?

__

Yrch, brannon! Law istin gwenyd tîn, dan doegm danar ar e coth dadar norn—Orcs, lord. I do not know their numbers, but our soldiers are retreating and the enemy presses us hard.


	6. Diversions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

Celeborn sheathed his sword, slowed his horse, and gestured to Haldir who was riding behind him. At this signal, Haldir raised a horn to his lips and blew three loud blasts, signaling the disengagement of the elven forces. It had not taken much to drive the Orcs away, something that had aroused deep suspicion in Celeborn. A few volleys of arrows, a charge of spears, some scattered sword fights, and then the wretched creatures had fled as though all the wrath of the Valar was about to descend. The elves had suffered minimal casualties that would be healed by the morrow. It had been ridiculously easy, insulting almost, and that did not sit well with Celeborn.

Having lived with Galadriel for so long, Celeborn had learned quickly to evaluate and consider every possible facet of a situation. It was the tendency of a ring-bearer to see the invisible and know the impossible, and in order to stay on the same mental playing field as his wife, Celeborn had been forced to see as she saw and think as she thought. Consequently, when Elladan had brought the news that a company of Orcs had passed to the south, Celeborn had entertained several possibilities and even in the face of Aragorn’s intuition that both armies were connected, Celeborn could not accept it at face value as Elladan and Elrohir could. They had cultivated an implicit trust in Aragorn’s instincts, but Celeborn had learned from harsh experience and several ages that instincts were not always reliable. The White Council’s misplaced trust in Saruman was proof enough of that.

But it was beginning to look as though Aragorn had been right. The Orcs invading Rivendell had retreated far too quickly for the attack to be anything but a delay. A detour. A gambit to draw away the forces of Rivendell from the true threat. Now more than ever, Celeborn wished for Galadriel’s comforting presence. She had not always been with him on the field of war, but he had always been able to feel her mind near at hand. It was an assurance and a promise that no matter what happened, there was always hope. But that power was now gone, and Celeborn found himself aching for Galadriel in a way he had never believed possible. She had only been gone for a little over four years! Such time was as the blink of an eye to an elf, and yet…

"This was too easy. The least they could have done was pretend to fight."

Celeborn shook his head, pushing such thoughts to the back of his mind, and turned his horse to fall into step beside Elladan’s mount. "Their only task was to keep us here so that prisoners could be taken elsewhere," the lord of Lothlórien sighed. "And unfortunately, they were successful as far as the delay went."

"We could do nothing else," Elladan said with quiet indignation.

"No, we could not. Alas, our foe is one step ahead of us. And that is only to be expected, for they have made the first move."

"They have always made the first move," the half-elf murmured. "It seems that our eternal fault is to underestimate the enemy. We never accurately calculate their strength until that strength lays us low."

"Then perhaps it is time for a change of policy," Celeborn said, turning about and motioning Haldir forward. "Go among our kinsmen and find some capable elves who will be able to follow the Orcs from a distance. I wish to know the location of their lair and, if possible, the numbers that face us should we have need to come against them directly."

"By your leave, my lord, I shall follow these beasts myself along with my brothers, Rúmil and Orophin," Haldir answered. "And you may be assured that they will not escape us."

"Thank you, Haldir. But take care! You are not to engage the Orcs unless they give you no choice. Track them only and report back when you have found their hiding place. And before you leave, gather some of the Galadhrim and add a line of archers behind the border guards of Imladris to cover their retreat should the Orcs return."

"It shall be as your order, my lord," Haldir said with a short bow from atop his mount. Nodding respectfully to Elladan, he turned his horse, whispered quiet words to the steed, and hastened toward the northern border.

"I doubt very much that the Orcs will return," Elladan remarked after Haldir had left. "It is a possibility, of course, but after fitting all the pieces of this puzzle together, it seems to me that the capture of Rivendell is not in their immediate plans, else they would not have used their strength to distract us. They would have attacked directly without warning."

"Such thoughts occurred to me as well, yet I will leave nothing to chance." Celeborn pursed his lips, going over his list of possible explanations for what was happening and eventually shaking his head at the number of unknown he encountered. "Tell me more of what your Orc revealed," he finally said, turning toward the oldest son of Elrond.

Elladan frowned. "He was certainly not _my_ Orc."

"The Orc who had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting you, then."

The half-elf grimaced and his eyes narrowed as he recalled the details of his conversation with the creature. "He was a lower-ranking foot soldier and a poor one at that. Once I pinned him at sword point, he gave up the struggle until he recalled the creature that commands these beasts. I believe he had been part of a larger company, and he said as much when I pressed him for information. He was probably a deserter, looking to feast on the spoils of war."

"And he revealed that the intention of his former companions was to make prisoners of the hobbits?" Celeborn questioned. Elladan nodded and the lord of Lothlórien pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Strange. What purpose would they have in capturing hobbits? The simple costs of feeding them in captivity would outweigh any benefit that might come of them!"

Elladan gave a short bark of laughter before sobering quickly. "The Orc did not mention hobbits specifically but rather those members of the Fellowship who traveled the Road," he explained. "In this case, that means Samwise, Meriadoc, and Peregrin, but hobbits were not specifically mentioned. The Fellowship of the Ring was."

"The Orcs are after Fellowship members, then," Celeborn murmured. "Odd. Most Orcs know very little about the role the Fellowship played. Even fewer can identify the Fellowship members. And to want them as prisoners rather than corpses…did he say aught else?"

"That the Fellowship must perish, but they were to be made prisoners first. After learning this, I demanded information on his leader." Elladan’s eyes strayed to his sheathed sword and he grimaced. "When I demanded too much, he surged upward in what appeared to me to be fear. He soiled my blade with his foul blood and I have still not had the opportunity to clean it properly."

"He killed himself?"

Elladan shook his head. "Nay, rather I think he was overcome by a terror so great that his fear for me was forgotten and he could no longer submit to my questions." The half-elf glanced at Celeborn, his deep, piercing eyes troubled. "The one who commands these Orcs is able to instill great fear in them. Never before have I seen such devotion save it be in the Uruk-hai, and many of them were raised by Saruman himself. For a lowly goblin to possess such feelings of fear and loyalty, even if that loyalty is forced…I like it not."

"Are there things about Orcs that you do like?" Celeborn asked, watching Elladan closely and hoping to draw out more of his reactions through jest. Of Elrond’s two sons, Elladan was by far the more perceptive twin, but he also happened to be the most close-mouthed. His confidences extended to his brother—with whom he shared practically everything—Aragorn, and occasionally Arwen. Beyond that circle, those who wished information from Elladan were forced to pry and search for it, and Elladan was not an easy nut to crack. But then, Galadriel had also been rather difficult at times, and Celeborn had always found a way to weasel past her walls.

In response to the question, Elladan laughed quietly and shook his head. "Things about Orcs that I like…" He trailed off and thought for a moment. "Once dead, they do not rise again," he eventually answered. "From my father’s tales of other ages, there are some creatures for whom that is not so."

Celeborn grimaced and nodded, trying to banish some rather unpleasant memories that had abruptly surfaced. "For that small fortune, we should be thankful. And because of this, Orcs fear death as some other creatures might not, which should tell us something of your Orc, or rather, the Orc you met. I find it strange than a goblin would forget immediate peril due to the fear of a superior. What do you draw from this, Elladan? Have you any suspicions?"

"Several, yet they are only intuition and guesswork. I would not weary the lord of Lothlórien with my simple musings." Elladan fell silent and Celeborn revised his opinion of the half-elf. If anything, Elrond’s son was more closemouthed than Galadriel.

"Elladan! Celeborn! How fare our people?"

Celeborn blinked and turned to Elladan. "I do not remember that you gave Arwen leave to assume command of Imladris."

"I had no need to. She usually assumes that responsibility on her own," Elladan said with a grin. He whispered softly to his horse and the stallion stopped as Arwen rode up on Hasufel. "We have driven the forces back, sister. Has there been aught to report in Imladris?"

"Nothing. It seems the attack from the north was the only attack upon your realm," Arwen answered. "Nor have we had any tidings from Elrohir and Estel, though doubtless they have yet far to ride." A note of fear and concern had now entered Arwen’s voice, and she look westward anxiously. "It is as you said, dear brother. The attack upon Rivendell was but a ruse and a distraction. The true danger lies upon the Road."

"Fear not for them, Arwen," Elladan said quietly. "Elrohir and Estel have both ridden into much danger before, and they have the archers of Mirkwood to back them."

"But we know so little about the danger they face," Celeborn commented, directing a rather pointed look at Elladan.

Elladan turned and gave Celeborn a look so familiar that the lord of Lothlórien wondered if he had not taken lessons from Galadriel. "I have told you all that I know," Elladan said quietly.

"But you have not told me all that you suspect."

"Were I to do that, we would be here from now until next year."

"Peace, both of you," Arwen interrupted, moving Hasufel so that she now rode between the two. "It is unfair to begin this conversation without me, for I have not heard what Elladan has to tell. My information has been garnered from Haldir when I can stall him long enough for talk. Come now, and speak with me. Tell me of your suspicions and your facts."

"Exactly what would you know, sister?" Elladan asked, and Celeborn blinked as he caught a subtle shift in the tone of the conversation. To his sharp ears, it sounded almost as though Elladan was preparing for a contest of sorts, and judging from the twinkle in Arwen’s eyes, she was just as eager as her brother for the challenge.

"I would know the reason behind your haste when you road into Rivendell today. Your horse was sorely pressed, and this most recent encounter with the Orcs has not helped him."

"I road swiftly to deliver a message."

"What was this message?"

"That Orcs were moving on the East-West Road and the hobbits were in danger."

"In danger of death or imprisonment?"

"Imprisonment."

"And how came you by this knowledge?"

Celeborn shook his head, slightly amazed at what was taking place. It was a game. Elladan gave only as much information as Arwen’s questions required, and Arwen made her questions so specific and leading that Elladan could not help but give some details away. From their phrasing and the way they anticipated one another, it was obvious this had been done before, and Celeborn wondered if it wasn’t a method of relieving stress. Arwen was no longer dwelling on Aragorn and Elladan was no longer dwelling on his feelings of imminent darkness. Perhaps this was what had occupied the children of Elrond during the long years of the Third Age when the shadow of Sauron pressed close to Imladris.

"An Orc told me," Elladan was saying.

Arwen blinked. "An Orc came up to you and volunteered this information?"

"No, I forced this information from it."

"I see. And what was the nature of this Orc?"

"A weak underling."

"From whence did it hail?"

Now Elladan paused as though debating whether or not to answer this question. Immediately seeing the pause, Arwen checked Hasufel and stopped, fixing dark eyes upon her brother. Celeborn also stopped, wondering why he had failed to ask this simple question. Apparently an advantage to the game that Arwen and Elladan now played was that every tiny detail was examined, and the lord of Lothlórien wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have used this game on Galadriel. But she would have grown irritated at the endless stream of questions, so perhaps it was best that he had relied more on intuition than on interrogation.

"Elladan?" Arwen prompted.

"Mordor," he finally murmured, and it seemed that the game of questions came to an end with this statement. "The Orc was from Mordor."

"Mordor!?" Celeborn exclaimed. This was a new and unwelcome development. All of the Orcs to the north had been Uruk-hai, and that was only to be expected as they were forced to attack in broad daylight. Bur Orcs from Mordor…if that was true and this Orc was the not the only one of his kind to come westward, how many other fell goblins from the destruction of Sauron’s realm had journeyed hither? And how many festered still in the dark Misty Mountains? "How did this Orc come to be here?" the lord of Lothlórien demanded. "Surely it would be impossible for an Orc to escape the watchfulness of Gondor! Beyond that, an Orc would have to pass by Rohan or Lothlórien in order to arrive here, and I can assure you that we have not failed in our vigilance."

"The plains of Rohan are vast, Lord Celeborn," Elladan answered. "It would be difficult to patrol their entire expanse so effectively that none passed without Eomer’s knowledge. And as for Lothlórien, your numbers diminish and you have not the power of Nenya to sense darkness, much as we now lack Vilya. It would not be terribly difficult for a single Orc—or even a small company of Orcs—to slip through your guard. And as for Gondor, Anduin flows past many shores and the darkness of Mordor still lies heavy upon the eastern bank. The escape of Orcs into the Misty Mountains is not inconceivable."

"You have given this much thought," Arwen observed, her voice quiet and reflective. "And I can see no fault in your reasoning. I wish it were not so, but it seems now to me that possibly many Orcs from Mordor may have found their way to the mountains. Perhaps this is the reason for their dark shadow. And is it possible that not only Orcs but men have come hither?"

"I see nothing to prevent them," Elladan said. "But I also see little reason for men to make the journey, for many hailed from Harad and they would see no purpose in traveling so far west when they have a desert of their own to conquer. But as you say, it is possible that some of the men have come here to trouble us."

"That may also explain this _master_ who filled an Orc with such fear that he impaled himself upon your blade," Celeborn murmured, his eyes thoughtful. "Perhaps one of Mordor’s commanding captains has come to plague us, and it is he who lays the strategy these Orcs follow."

"I cannot fault your conclusions," Elladan said. "It may be that you have it aright. Yet I wonder what captain would wait five years before seeking vengeance. Such a passage of time is long in the world of men, though it seem like naught to the elves."

"It would take a man of immense patience as well as immense cunning," Celeborn answered. "And in this, we face a dangerous threat."

"Nor does it help that the Orcs have been given leave to breed and secure their strength while we have sat idle," Arwen spoke up, her voice sharp. "Why have you not dealt with the mountains before?"

"We knew not their strength, nor did we know the location of their stronghold, their plans, their weaponry, or their leadership. We still know not these things. It would have been folly to attack them, and it is currently folly to pursue them. Understand, Arwen, that we no longer have the strength in numbers that once graced this haven. We no longer have the protection of Vilya and the greatest of the elf lords departed West with father. Glorfindel no longer rides the roads and Gildor no longer sends warnings from the Wilds." Elladan’s hand tightened into a fist and Celeborn felt himself edging his horse away at the feel of frustration emanating from Elrond’s son. "We have not the soldiers, the arms, or the leadership that you have in Gondor, Arwen. We can do nothing but wait for the doom that is ours!"

There was silence after that, and it was some time before any dared speak. When at last the stillness was broken, it was done so by Arwen, her voice soft and apologetic. "Forgive me, dearest brother," she whispered, turning her head so that none could see her face. "I had forgotten how much has been lost to Rivendell. I have been blinded by the beauty of Minas Tirith and the newfound strength of Gondor. I can not see the fading of my own people."

"The fault is not yours," Elladan sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Your life has led you down a different path, and for that you should be grateful. For now, at least, the sorrows that will come may be held at bay. And I am sorry, Arwen, for speaking so to you."

"Do not apologize," Elrond’s daughter said firmly. "We are all distressed by what has happened and what we have seen. Let us cease this ill talk and be thankful that Rivendell is safe for now. And let us pray that tidings from the Road may be as good."

The three fell into silence then, each lost in thought. Arwen’s words rang through Celeborn’s mind, but he could not bring himself to find hope in them. He had lived too long and endured too much for that. Elrohir, Aragorn, and Thranduil might ride with the speed of the eagles, but Celeborn sensed that plans had been laid long in advance. They would not reach the hobbits in time. Legolas and Gimli were just as likely to share their fate. With a sigh, Celeborn shook his head and turned his far-seeing eyes to the west. It seemed that the celebration in honor of the Ring’s destruction might now turn into desperate struggle and a time of sorrow for all the evil that had not been destroyed. And the thought occurred to Celeborn that no matter what they did, the evil they now faced would probably always remain.

* * * *

"Legolas, I think we may have a problem."

The elf shook his head and grimaced. "I will say this for you, Gimli. You truly have an eye for the subtle details that might escape the notice of others, and your skills in analytical thinking are beyond compare."

The dwarf grunted and backed up a bit, watching the Orcs closely as they streamed out of the forest. He and Legolas had already engaged them in battle, but with the steady trickle of foes from the trees and the fact that they were now completely surrounded, Gimli and Legolas had both backed off and now watched as their enemies gathered. The Orcs had not pursued them when they retreated abruptly and had merely continued to gather, an act that had sent the wheels in Gimli’s head turning vainly for an explanation. It didn’t help that Legolas seemed to be at an equal loss. The elf had dismounted and the two now stood shoulder to elbow, a defiant if hopeless challenge to the growing number of Orcs that surrounded the group of travelers. Behind them, Arod snorted and neighed, his voice colored by fear. Further back, the hobbits were also moving toward the elf and dwarf.

"Why do they not charge?" Legolas murmured. His bow was strung, but he did not shoot. What good did it do to strike one leaf in a forest?

"It seems as though they are waiting for something," Gimli answered, backing up even further and feeling Legolas move with him. He’d been thinking about that as well, and his thoughts had not been encouraging. There were no archers among the Orcs, or if there were, they had not made their presence known. As for weapons, he had seen a few rapiers and a smattering of knives, but most of their enemies seemed to sport staffs and clubs. "Legolas, I do not think they mean to kill us."

The prince shot him a look that clearly questioned the dwarf’s sanity. "And I suppose this is their way of inviting us to sup with them?"

"Look at their weapons, foolish elf! These are not weapons of death but weapons of restraint. They do not mean to kill us, they mean to take us prisoner!"

Legolas blinked and then studied the Orcs more closely. "You are right. They have no bows, only a few knives and swords…" He trailed off and looked back at Arod, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Legolas? Gimli?" a worried voice behind them called.

"Stand at our backs," Gimli ordered, sparing a moment to glance at the frightened hobbits. They Orcs were now advancing with painstaking slowness, making certain that no gaps were left in their line through which their victims might escape. The beleaguered companions drew together, and Gimli’s anger was forced up a notch when he heard sniffling from a small hobbit child. For her part, Rosie seemed to be possessed of an admirable courage, but Elanor clung to Pippin and buried her face in his chest, shaking with a fright that was grievous to see.

"Any plans?" Merry hissed, battling with his pony for control. The poor animal was half-rearing with terror and if the Orcs charged, it was doubtful that Merry would be able to fight for he would be too busy with the horse.

"I could clear a path for you," Legolas murmured, seeming to speak to himself. "There would only be a few seconds for you to escape and you would have to force your way through much of it. But on the northeast side of the Road, the line of enemies is thinner. Arrows would scatter them, Arod could press through them, and if Gimli leads the charge, you might succeed in breaking through this siege."

"But you would be left here," Pippin protested. "Absolutely not, Legolas. It will be all or none of us."

Gimli nodded his head in agreement and shot a look at the prince that was intended to reprimand him for even considering the idea, but he stopped. The elf was looking back at him, and in his gaze was a wordless plea. Legolas jerked his head in the direction of the hobbits, and Gimli sighed. He knew that particular look, and he knew it was hopeless to protest. If the elf did not gain his agreement, he would go ahead with the plan anyway. And in truth, Legolas was right. Their first priority was the hobbits, and if that meant a sacrifice was required, so be it. But the dwarf would sooner shave off his beard than allow his best friend to make that sacrifice alone. "I will not leave your side," Gimli said firmly, sending a stern glare in the elf’s direction.

Now Legolas looked as though he were about to protest and Gimli could see the indecision and hesitation racing through his bright eyes, but at length, he simple smiled sadly and gave a quick nod, apparently realizing the futility of arguing with the dwarf. "Listen closely, all of you," Legolas whispered, directing his words primarily to the hobbits. "On my signal, Gimli and Arod shall charge the Orcs near that copse of trees. I shall cover their attack with arrows and hopefully we shall create a distraction. Sam and Merry, you will rush the Orcs as soon as we have engaged them in battle." The elf glanced over his shoulder at the mounted hobbits, making certain he had their complete and undivided attention. "Rosie will ride directly behind you and you must shield her. Pippin, hand Elanor to her and you shall ride rearguard. Drive through their line with as much speed as you can. Do not tarry and do not pause to battle your opponents. Your only goal is escape. As soon as you are clear, make straight for the Ford. Do not slow down and do not look back. Ride as hard as you can away from this place."

"But—"

"Pippin!" Legolas hissed, twisting around and flicking his eyes at Elanor who huddled fearfully within the hobbit’s arms. "Do not argue with me. We have no time for it!"

"Fear not for us, Master Took," Gimli added, shoving down the spasm of worry and adrenaline that began racing through his system. "Remember, young hobbit, that I shall be with the elf. No harm will come to him. And no harm will come to me."

"Surrender!"

A harsh voice redirected their attention to the Road, and the surrounded friends turned as one to greet this new threat. Gimli felt his hands tightening on the haft of his axe and he forced himself to relax. It would not do for him to use his energy now when it would be needed later. At his side, he heard Legolas take a deep breath and he recognized it for a calming method the elf had used several times before. Confident that they were as prepared as they would ever be, the dwarf moved forward and fixed a defiant glare on the great Orc captain who had stepped away from the milling circle of foes.

"Surrender?" Gimli echoed, filling his voice with as much derision as he could muster. "Legolas, this foul, filth-ridden creature wishes us to surrender. What think you of that?"

"I think he fears to take on the prowess of an elf and the boldness of a dwarf, my friend," Legolas responded, drawing his notched arrow back slightly. "But perhaps that is true of all such lowly beings. They cannot endure the battles we would give them. Certainly such meager forces as they have here are no match for us. Almost they do not know club from bow."

"Yes, you have it aright. They are a pitiful, weakened, groveling race, are they not? Ruined, twisted…so unlike the elves who sired them long ago," Gimli said with a sorrowful nod, hoping Legolas would not be too offended by the reference. Perhaps it had been unnecessary to bring up the origin of the Orcs, but few things had the power to enrage the twisted creatures of Sauron like a comparison between them and the Eldar.

Probably realizing this, Legolas stiffened but did not protest. Instead, he picked the idea up and ran with it even as the Orcs were beginning to murmur around them with murderous anger. "You speak with great wisdom, Gimli. Verily, it is difficult to see that there are any similarities between Elves and Orcs. One race is strong while the other is weak, and I believe we all know which label can be attributed to which group."

"Yes, my friend, there can be no doubt about that. See how the Orcs tremble before us." One of the advantages of the continuous verbal sparing matches between the two friends was the ability to instantly conjure biting insults. Both Legolas and Gimli were now quite adept at spontaneous libel, and they had found it to be very useful for angering opponents and robbing them of reason. _Not that Orcs have much reason to begin with_ , Gimli thought to himself with a grim smile.

"This is your last warning," the Orc spat, clearly enraged.

"No, it is yours," Legolas returned coldly, and at that moment, he released his arrow. The Orc captain fell before he truly knew what had happened, but the elf did not waste time to celebrate his kill. His arrows were flying swiftly now, picking off Orcs with a speed that could not be followed by mortal eyes. A narrow corridor gradually opened up, and without slackening his attack, the elf shouted the signal.

"Now! _Arod, revio! Noro ter i yrch a drego an Imladris!_ "

Upon the elf’s command, the great war-horse of Rohan leaped forward, albeit he seemed to do so reluctantly, and charged the Orcs, neighing a fierce challenge and lowering his head to build up speed. Left with little alternative, Gimli raced after him. Leaving the elf’s side was one of the hardest things the dwarf had ever done, but he forced himself to do it. The Orcs before them were swept with confusion and fear as Arod met their ranks and reared, lashing out with hooves and teeth, but Gimli could see the Orcs behind the hobbits and elf out of the corner of his eye and they were beginning to surge forward as a response to this sudden attack on their comrades. He could only hope that Legolas would break off his frontal assault in time to turn and meet them.

Reaching the startled Orcs and sounding a dwarven roar of fury, Gimli’s axe quickly met with flesh and he hewed down the few Orcs who had thought to close the gap that Arod and Legolas’s arrows had made. The horse was already halfway through the line and fighting viciously. The Orcs seemed to be at a loss as to how to confront the creature, and Legolas’s continuing onslaught of arrows was certainly not helping them come to a speedy conclusion. Then Arod surged forward and broke through, whinnying triumphantly and kicking out with his back legs to send two more Orcs crumpling to the ground. The horse turned once and neighed, almost sounding as though he bid them farewell, and then took off down the Road with the speed of his sires, vanishing quickly around a bend in the distance.

__

One clear, four to go, Gimli noted, leaping aside as he countered a staff with his axe while a club swung down behind him. Legolas’s arrows had stopped and the dwarf hoped that the elf was now looking after his own safety, but he was too busy to pause and find his friend in the battle. Sensing the approach of hobbit ponies, Gimli swung harder, faster, and then threw himself out of the way as Sam and Merry swept through, both brandishing their swords. Rosie followed close behind, holding a crying Elanor and shielding the child with her body as best she could while clutching tightly to the pony’s reigns. Pippin brought up the rear, slashing at the attacking Orcs as he went, and crying for greater speed. The Orcs who had closed the path made by Arod were caught off guard by the fierce attack of Sam and Merry and soon either skewered by hobbit blade or swept away by the press of the charge. Pippin guarded well their backs as one Orc fell headless and another screamed amid the blood that erupted from his neck, pierced by the Took’s sword. With a cry of victory, the hobbits broke free of the encircling Orcs and spurred their ponies onward. They were through!

Gimli heaved a great sigh of relief at the same time that he tried to backtrack and join his elven friend, but the press of Orcs was too great and he found himself cutoff. In the few glimpses he managed to catch of the prince, Gimli noted that Legolas was now using his knife as well as a thin sword he’d managed to steal from one of the Orcs. It appeared that he was holding his own, but given the number of foes they faced, that wouldn’t last long. Gimli was unsure of how long he himself could last, and he redoubled his efforts to reach Legolas. They stood a better chance together than they did apart. Still, Gimli was forced to admit that it truly didn’t matter what they did. Side by side or separated by Orcs, defeat was still defeat. And with numbers like this, defeat was inevitable.

"The Shire!"

Gimli froze and was very nearly decapitated as a result. Ducking beneath a sword and blocking two clubs, the dwarf turned around and paled. Merry and Pippin were charging back in, hoping to create an avenue of escape for Gimli and Legolas. Their courage was admirable and Gimli felt a flush of pride for these hobbits, but it was a fool’s move. They could not hope to prevail against such odds and it would have been better if they’d kept going with Sam and Rosie, who were thankfully nowhere in sight. Beyond that, Merry’s horse was giving him problems again and Gimli winced as the pony nearly carried the poor hobbit straight into a swinging club. The Brandybuck ducked in time, but this could not continue.

Deciding that rejoining Legolas would have to wait a moment longer—the elf was still holding his own, after all—Gimli started hacking his way toward the hobbits, yelling at them to back off. It didn’t do any good, of course, for hobbits could be just as stubborn as elves when they set their mind to something. In fact, now that Gimli was shouting, the hobbits were beginning to drive toward him.

"We’re coming, Gimli!" Pippin called.

Gimli knew exactly what Gandalf would say in this situation. _Fool of a Took,_ rang through his mind, and the dwarf was sorely tempted to make liberal use of that phrase while adding the name _Brandybuck_ to include Merry. But before he could do so, a sudden yell froze his heart and he watched in horror as Merry’s pony reared up, fighting the reins and dumping the hobbit onto the ground. Pippin cried out and tried to reach his friend even as a swarm of Orcs descended upon the fallen hobbit. Numbers pressed both Gimli and Pippin back, and through the chaos, the faint cry of a stricken hobbit managed to reach their ears.

"Merry!" Gimli raged, trying to push forward but finding himself blocked. He turned back, searching desperately for Legolas in the hopes that the elf might be able to do something, but what he saw made him completely forget Merry’s predicament.

Legolas was having problems of his own as a hard blow to his elbow caused his rapier to fly from his hand and a follow-up strike disarmed him of his knife. Weaponless, the prince managed to dodge the next two blows and deflect a third, but even elven agility could not prevail against the odds he faced. A well-timed strike caught him in the back of the head, and with a startled cry, the elf staggered and fell.

Time seemed to grind to a halt and for one terrible moment, Gimli stood frozen by a deadly fear and a dreadful rage. Then the world snapped back into place and the dwarf let out a great roar, swinging his axe with a wrath that had many of the lesser Orcs racing for safety. Blinded by his mad need to reach the elf, Gimli fought with a fury that might have caused Smaug to back down. But even as his rage overtook his mind, one thought kept resonating within the dwarf. They were lost. He would never be able to save Legolas. Merry had already fallen. It was only a matter of time until Pippin went down, and Gimli could not hold out against such a press of foes. At this point in time, only an act of the Valar could save them, but if that was to be the way of things, then so be it. It would never be said that Gimli went meekly. Channeling all his hatred into the swing of his axe, Gimli cried aloud and plunged himself recklessly into the battle.

 

 

 

__

Arod, revio! Noro ter i yrch a drego an Imladris!—Arod, fly! Ride through the orcs and flee to Imladris!


	7. Sundered by Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

Hunched low over the neck of his horse Gaearsul, Elrohir whispered words of encouragement, urging his mount to faster speeds and greater strides. The hooves of the horses sounded loud on the road and the thrill and excitement of battle began to pound in the half-elf’s veins. Elrohir had always been the more adventurous twin with an eye for swift swordplay and a delight for the intricacies of strategy. By contrast, Elladan was more given to study and contemplation. He could wield a sword against the most formidable opponent, but his true strengths lay in the arts and philosophies. Elladan still followed Elrohir into battle and still continued to prove himself a superb warrior even by elven standards, but he would never hold a candle to his brother’s love of the spear and the lance. Elrohir did not glory in the loss of life, but he did enjoy the interplay of various plots and schemes, and he found the rush of a cavalry charge to be exhilarating. That same excitement overtook him now, and though it was tempered by rising fear for his friends on the Road before them, it was still a wonderfully stimulating feeling.

Beneath him, Gaearsul suddenly neighed loudly, and Elrohir’s attention became fixed on his mount, wondering at the stallion’s restlessness. Then an answering neigh called out to them from further west on the Road and a running horse came into view, skidding hard around a sharp bend. To Elrohir’s right, Aragorn swore and spurred Roheryn forward.

"Arod," the king of Gondor cried, and in answer, the frightened, skittish horse galloped toward them, snorting and shaking his head. Elrohir felt his heart sinking, and he noted the slash marks on Arod’s legs and sides as well as the conspicuous absence of the two individuals that Arod usually carried.

"We cannot stop to tend him," Thranduil said from his position on Elrohir’s left. "We must press on."

Catching the slight tremble in the king’s voice and feeling his own fear rise in response, Elrohir quickly nodded. " _Posto sí, Arod_ ," he ordered. " _Posto a deri an min_."

Arod seemed less than pleased with the commands, but his trembling, exhausted form would not allow him to follow the elven riders and he reluctantly moved aside as they swept past him on the road. Raising his head high, he neighed loudly and the elven horses answered his cry with high whinnies, assuring him that they would do everything in their power to see that his riders were returned to him. Then they were sweeping around the same bend that Arod had turned, and the horse of Rohan was lost to their sight.

Onward they raced, now compelled by an even greater fear for it seemed that Legolas and Gimli had found the Orcs that hunted the hobbits, but as for what had become of them, none could tell. Nor could any tell if the Orcs had also found the hobbits. A dreadful fear gripped the hearts of the company, but perhaps its greatest hold lay upon Elrohir. Memories long buried of his mother after her captivity in the hands of these fell creatures flashed through his mind, searing his consciousness and reminding him of his failure to protect her. He remembered his father’s grave face and the sorrow of Rivendell when she at last departed for the Havens. He remembered the mad quest for vengeance that had taken his mind for a time, and he remembered his brother’s comforting presence when at last he came back to his senses. Elladan had followed Elrohir as the younger twin obsessively sought the Orcs that had tormented and maimed their mother. Elladan had protected him when anger stole reason, and when at last the rage was spent, he had stepped forward and quietly consoled him. Of his own feelings and hurt, the older twin had said naught. He only spoke soothing words of comfort, and from them Elrohir had gained the strength to move on.

But now the memories of that painful time threatened to take his mind again, and he felt the rising hatred and loathing that had forced him from his senses and filled his thoughts with an insane rage. Shoving his feelings down, Elrohir bridled his anger and tried to direct it, creating of it a tool rather than becoming a tool himself. He urged Gaearsul to even greater speeds, and sensing the fear of his rider, the elven horse willing complied. Leaping forward and compelling the others to also increase the pace, the band of elves and men swept down the Road with a speed that would have impressed Gwaihir and Landroval had they been there to see it.

The Road narrowed ahead of them as it bent to skirt the southern edge of wooded hills, and the company came together, with Gondor, Lothlórien, and Rivendell sweeping into formation before the elves of Mirkwood. The sound of their horses’ hooves echoed loud off the hills and seemed to demand even more speed. It was a race against time, and elven horses were too proud to let any challenge go unanswered. Straining to their utmost and galloping with a swiftness that had the horses of Gondor stumbling, they turned another sharp bend in the road, and then the rules of the game abruptly changed.

Elrohir felt his heart leap into his throat as his eyes caught sight of what lay before him. Further back in the line, Thranduil cursed and Aragorn echoed the statement in a rare instance of agreement between the two kings. Riding madly down the road on two frantic ponies came a pair of panicking adult hobbits and one crying hobbit child.

There was no sign of anyone else.

"Sam!" Aragorn called sharply, and Elrohir raised his hand for the company to come to a halt. Horses snorted as they stopped their mad gallop and a feeling of dread swept over the group. Where were the other hobbits? Where were Legolas and Gimli?

Seeming to snap out of his fear at Aragorn’s commanding voice, Sam looked up and a look of relief swept his face. "Orcs!" he cried, slowing his frightened pony and reaching over to aid Rosie in controlling her mount. "Orcs on the Road! They surrounded us and ordered us to surrender."

"How were you able to escape?" Aragorn demanded.

"Legolas and Gimli made a distraction and we got away, but they didn’t," Sam explained hurriedly, a note of grief and guilt rising in his voice. "Then Pippin and Merry rode back to help them and Arod was already missing and Rosie and Elanor here needed looking after so I couldn’t go back even though I wanted to and—"

"Peace, Samwise," Elrohir broke in, silence the hobbit’s rambling even as he began to assemble the scattered facts they were receiving from Sam’s muddled mind. "What we need now is information, not recrimination. How far away are the Orcs and are they still on the Road?"

"They’re about a mile away, maybe more," Sam answered, turning and pointing to the west.

"And they’re still on the Road," Rosie added, filling in for her flustered husband though she was still quite upset herself. Elanor had stopped crying, but she clung tightly to her mother and would not let go.

"Aragorn, have some of your men and some of the Galadhrim stay with these hobbits," Elrohir directed. "They must stay alert, for there may be more than one company of Orcs in these woods. As for the rest of us, we ride on!"

Urging Gaearsul forward, Elrohir was dimly aware of hurried commands on the part of Aragorn as he split his company. But they could not wait for such matters to be ordered, for if there remained even a chance of rescuing the others, they could afford to lose no time. Of course, he could have simply ordered Aragorn to keep his entire group here, but the heir of Isildur would never obey such an order. Aside from the fact that he was now a king and would chafe under such assumed authority, he would never consent to allowing others to ride to the rescue when it was his friends whose lives were on the line.

There was now a new sense of urgency that whipped the company down the Road at speed that threatened to send all the horses tumbling, not just those of Gondor. Elrohir thought once about slowing the mad pace for the sake of their mounts, but any delay at this point might be costly. Even deadly. With a shake of his head, Elrohir pushed such ominous thoughts to the back of his mind. Such thinking only clouded the reactions of a warrior and distracted him from the battle. Firmly disciplining himself as he had been taught to do over the course of more than a thousand years, he loosened his sword in its scabbard, moved up on Gaearsul, and settled into the rhythm of an insanely fast gallop.

They were coming to a section of the Road that ran straight for several miles, and if Sam was correct in his reckoning, the Orcs would be somewhere along here. The anticipation and adrenaline of the coming battle flooded him, and he felt the same anticipation take shape in Gaearsul as the horse snorted and lowered his head in an attempt to squeeze just a bit more speed out of his faltering legs. Elrohir’s peripheral vision picked up Thranduil moving forward to make up for the loss of half the forces of Lothlórien and Gondor, and the elves of Mirkwood began to spread wide so as to hit the Orcs on a broader base. The archers drifted to the back of the ranks, and Elrohir heard the creak of bows as they were strung and bent, arrows already notched and waiting. On his right, the Galadhrim and men of Gondor began to catch up with the rest of the group and move forward along with Mirkwood’s forces, though they were a bit behind the others due to the delay with the hobbits. Elrohir had lost track of Aragorn and he glanced back, hoping to find him quickly so that they might fight together. After a moment or two of searching, he found his foster brother and started to motion him to the front of the pack, but as they rounded the last corner before the straightaway, all thoughts of strategy and planning were drowned in a sea of rage.

Elrohir had never before seen so many Orcs gathered in one place in Eriador. He might have expected this near Mirkwood, around Mordor, within the passes of the Misty Mountains, or even in the far south of Gondor where legions of dark forces still gathered. But in Eriador…such a thing had not been seen since Gil-galad and his father had driven Sauron east of the mountains. Exchanging a horrified glance with Aragorn, whose eyes were likewise filled with shock and loathing, Elrohir called to his troops and sent Gaearsul toward the Orcs with the cry of one mad and the challenge of one enraged.

The Orcs turned at the sound of approaching hooves, and what captains remained to them suddenly shouted in alarm. Without even pausing to offer a defense against the coming elves, the fell creatures began racing into the woods, deserting the field before Elrohir could engage them in battle. From the back of the company came a shower of arrows as some of the Galadhrim and a few of the elves from Mirkwood loosed their bows. Shouts rang out from the Orcs struck by their arrows, but as the company from Rivendell reached the scene of the attack, they realized the futility of pursuing their quarry. The Orcs had scattered as dry leaves before a windstorm, and though they had left clear marks of their passing in the woods, there were too many different directions for Elrohir and his contingent to consider following them now. And here was now another puzzle for Elrohir’s confused mind. Orcs did not abandon a battle like that. They would occasionally retreat or they might be startled into a short rout by fear, but to simply scatter…what had happened here? It was as if they had been protecting something and fled to ensure that something’s safety. But Elrohir was not allowed to dwell on such thoughts, for there were now other things to contend with.

Littered along the Road were dead Orcs of every shape and size. Elrohir instantly recognized the telltale markings of Uruk-hai captains. He also noted the presence of smaller mountain goblins and wondered how they had been forced to travel and fight in sunlight. Then there were other Orcs, not so large as the Uruk-hai but stronger than the Orcs of the mountains. Some of them bore shields marked with the symbol of a red eye, and Elrohir felt his blood run cold. _Mordor_ , his mind whispered. _What are Orcs of Mordor doing in Eriador?_ Unable to solve this problem at the moment, Elrohir shook his head and turned his attention to perhaps the strangest and most disconcerting sight of all.

A large, dense ring of slain Orcs encircled a shocked, shaking, fuming, blood-splattered dwarf who stood with an axe poised to strike. With dark eyes he stared at the elves in disbelief as though his weary mind could not accept the reality of their coming. Behind Gimli, curled into a tight ball on the ground and moaning piteously in partial consciousness, lay a hobbit. _Pippin_ , Elrohir recognized. Further away were the bodies of two hobbit ponies, their necks broken by the cruel hands of the Orcs. Of Merry and Legolas, there was no sign.

"Gimli?"

Aragorn’s deep voice broke the silence that had descended like a shroud over those now gathered, and along with the silence, it also seemed to break whatever trance had come over Gimli. With a shuddering breath, the dwarf blinked and turned away from the elves to stare at the surrounding woods and hills, his deep-set eyes searching vainly for some sign of his attackers. For a moment, none dared to breath and all eyes were fixed on the dwarf, who had paled and begun to shake. Then all jumped as with a wordless cry, Gimli began charging toward the trees, shocking the elves with his suddenness and ringing their ears with the force of his shout.

Fortunately, Aragorn seemed prepared for such action and he had already spurred Roheryn forward. Guiding the horse quickly and skillfully, he stopped his mount directly in the dwarf’s path. Skidding to a halt, Gimli was temporarily thrown off balance, which gave the king of Gondor time enough to dismount and knock the axe from Gimli’s hand. For a moment, no one dared move and dwarf and man stared at one another as though each looked a stranger. Then a terrible rage swept Gimli’s and he surged forward, forgetting the axe that now lay behind him. But as before, Aragorn was prepared and he seized the dwarf by the arms, planting his feet against the force of Gimli’s charge. But such was the dwarf’s strength that Aragorn was actually pushed back several feet before he found a firm foothold and managed to restrain his friend.

"He is gone," Aragorn hissed, his voice cold and his face stony as he held the dwarf back by brute force. "Seeking your own death will not avenge him."

Gimli made no answer to this, but he seemed to go limp and slumped against Aragorn, ceasing his efforts to press forward. Elrohir let out a sigh of relief and then turned to direct his forces, intending to send some out on scouting parties while others examined the dispatched Orcs. But much to surprise, he discovered that Thranduil had already taken care of such details, and the king of Mirkwood had even sent Lindir to examine Pippin. Seeing that all was ordered and his attention was not required for the moment, Elrond’s son directed Gaearsul toward Aragorn and Gimli, wondering if there was aught he could offer in the way of comfort or help.

Nearing the two, his heart constricted at the open agony on Gimli’s face. Never before had he seen a dwarf betray such emotion, and Rivendell had played host to several companies of dwarves traveling between the Blue Mountains west of the Shire and the Iron Hills east of Lake-town. Apart from Legolas, Elrohir and Elladan probably had more contact with the dwarves than any other elf left in Middle Earth, but never had a dwarf so blatantly prostrated grief before him. Aragorn was now kneeling next to Gimli and had a firm hand on his shoulder, but he seemed to be searching for something more to do. More than that, he seemed to be searching for a way to bury his own grief and distress while he dealt with more immediate matters, but it was clear that the horror of what had happened was beginning to clutch at the king’s heart. Bringing Gaearsul to a stop, Elrohir dismounted and approached softly, fearful of disturbing the two.

But Gimli had been Legolas’s friend too long to not feel the pull of an elven gaze, and a mask quickly descended upon his face as he turned to watch Elrohir. Their eyes met for a brief moment ere the dwarf looked away, and Elrohir shivered at the despair and darkness slowly creeping over Gimli, hidden though it was. Elrond’s son moved to speak, stopped, and then shook his head. A battle had happened here, and they needed information. They were not going to get answers from Pippin in the near future, which left the dwarf as their only source. _He is a warrior_ , Elrohir reminded himself. _He knows to put grief behind him and he will understand our needs. Even if Estel is loath to seek them, we must have answers._

His mind made up, the son of Elrond took a step forward and then went down on one knee, bringing himself down to eye-level with the dwarf. At another time this move might have been mistaken for condescension and an affront to dwarven pride, but Elrohir felt that Gimli would understand the compassion and concern behind this gesture. Waiting until the dwarf looked back at him, he forced his face to assume a mask of calm. "Gimli, what happened here?" Elrohir asked gently.

"Orcs," the dwarf whispered after a moment of hesitation. He closed his eyes, took a steadying breath that seemed strangely elven, and then stepped away from Aragorn. "They were waiting for us and we were ambushed. There was nothing we could do to prevent it."

"Tell us," Elrohir implored, capturing the dwarf’s dark eyes with his own and ignoring Aragorn’s sharp looks. "We must know the details."

"We’d just come upon the hobbits and were speaking with them," Gimli answered, shuddering slightly as the weariness of battle began to creep over him and the adrenaline within his system faded. "All seemed well until Legolas sensed the Orcs. They were not yet visible, but that quickly changed. We were riding swiftly when they broke from the trees before us. Legolas and I attacked them, hoping that an offensive might buy time for the hobbits to retreat to a place of safety and hiding, but the Orcs were also behind us. We were surrounded on all sides. Rivendell was cut off, and there was no retreat to be had."

"How many were there?" Aragorn asked, and in his voice was a strange degree of tension that Elrohir had not heard since Halbarad had died upon the Pelennor fields.

The mask over Gimli’s despair was becoming more opaque now, and save for yet another deep breath that was strangely reminiscent of meditation techniques used by the Sindarin, Gimli seemed to resume his gruff, abrupt dwarven personality. "I do not know. They were milling about and I could not count, nor did Legolas give me a number. The elf and I broke off our attack in order to better protect the hobbits. It was strange," the dwarf murmured, his voice becoming soft. "They did not pursue us but rather allowed us to retreat into the middle of the circle. It was almost as if they did not want to fight us. We drew together and then…" Gimli trailed and shook his head, murmuring incoherent words beneath his breath that sounded very much like a rather foul dwarven curse.

"Gimli?" Elrohir questioned.

"Never give an elf leave to plan your escape," the dwarf eventually growled. "Legolas had the grand idea of cutting a path through the Orcs using arrows, Arod, and me. The hobbits would follow the horse and hopefully break free of the press. It was a wonderful idea except for the fact that the stupid elf would still be trapped inside the Orcs’ circle."

"I take it you did not go along with his plan?" Elrohir observed when the dwarf paused.

"Of course not," Gimli said indignantly. "Without me, Legolas does not know a hilt from a blade. I doubt he could even find his own quiver without my assistance, much less string an arrow. I let him know in no uncertain terms that if he was staying, then so was I. I am proud to say that I won that particular argument."

"What happened next?" Elrohir asked, trying to direct the conversation back to the flow of the battle’s narrative.

"They asked us to surrender."

"They what!?" This announcement seemed to shake Aragorn from his own cloud of grief and a bit of life entered his dark gray eyes as he studied Gimli and considered his words. "These were Orcs, correct? And they asked you to surrender?"

"We were rather surprised by it as well," Gimli said, sighing. "Of course we refused. That’s when Legolas began his attack. Arod charged, I charged, the hobbits broke free, and then I turned to fight my way back to Legolas." Gimli then stopped and shook his head, turning his eyes to the forest. "But I was cut off. I could not get back to his side. There were too many of them."

"There was nothing you could do," Aragorn murmured, sighing quietly and running a hand wearily through his dark hair. "There are some things that you cannot change no matter how hard you fight them."

"Gimli, you said the hobbits broke clear," Elrohir broke in, realizing that Aragorn was becoming too burdened by grief to think clearly. "How is it that Pippin was with you when we rode in? And what of Merry?"

"Merry and Pippin chose to come back," Gimli murmured wearily. "A fool’s idea, and Pippin will pay for it with the knock he received to his head. It was all I could do to keep the Orcs away from him after he fell. As for Merry…" The dwarf trailed off and a sudden trembling took his frame. "He went down just before Legolas did."

Elrohir glanced back at the sight of the battle and then turned to both Aragorn and Gimli, coming to the question that Estel was not prepared to ask. "Where are Legolas and Merry now?"

Aragorn rounded on his foster brother with the same forceful glare that had managed to wrest Orthanc’s palantir from Sauron’s grasp, but Elrohir was not watching the king of Gondor. His eyes were focused instead on Gimli, who seemed shamed and upset rather than grieved by the question. "The Orcs took them," the dwarf hissed. "I know not where. I could not prevent it, and they were rendered unconscious and so could not resist."

Elrohir nodded and then turned his sharp eyes to Aragorn, who was almost trembling with hope unlooked for. "They were not killed?" the man questioned.

"I do not think so." The dwarf’s voice was still a whisper and even Elrohir had to strain his elven hearing to catch the muttered words. "At the beginning of the attack, I noted that the Orcs carried primarily staffs, clubs, and staves. They were after prisoners, not corpses."

"Why did you not say so?!" Aragorn’s grief swiftly turned to anger and Gimli backed up in surprise. "From your face and your sorrow, I judged that they had perished at the hands of the Orcs!"

Understanding dawned and Gimli hastily shook his head. "Nay, they yet lived when the attackers fled, or so I deemed when I saw Merry flung over an Orc shoulder. My apologies, Aragorn. I did not mean to cause you grief. You should have asked."

"You should have made clear the fact that they were not killed!"

"Peace," Elrohir soothed, glancing over his shoulder as peripheral vision caught movement. He grimaced when he saw that Thranduil was walking toward them. This was quite possibly the last thing Gimli and Aragorn needed. Still, there was naught to do about it save to build up their hopes and prepare them for a rather unpleasant encounter with Legolas’s father. _Would that Elladan were here instead of me. He has more the stomach for delicate matters such as this._ But there was nothing to be done about that, and so Elrohir set about doing what little he could manage under the circumstances. "Seek not to place the blame upon yourselves, both of you," Elrohir said, his voice firm. "What matters is that Legolas and Merry are not dead and we have a hope in seeing them again. All is not lost and hope remains with us so long as we allow it to. We must now discover the devices of our enemies and, if possible, their motives. Such things will aid us in the search for our lost comrades and hasten the time of our vengeance and their freedom." He then turned as Mirkwood’s king reached them and nodded his head by way of greeting. "How fares the hobbit?"

"Lindir believes he shall recover consciousness soon," Thranduil answered, not looking at Elrohir but instead running sharp eyes over Aragorn and Gimli. To their credit, neither flinched beneath the weighty stare, and Elrohir silently thanked the Valar that Aragorn had been raised among the elves and that Gimli had become an elf-friend. As such, both knew how to withstand the weight of an elven gaze, and this ability now saved them from further anguish. To show weakness before Thranduil was to condemn oneself.

"I see you have already sent out scouting parties," Elrohir continued, having a fairly good idea of what direction Thranduil’s thoughts were taking and attempting to sidetrack the older elf.

"Yes, I have," Thranduil answered, not taking his eyes from Aragorn and Gimli. It was, perhaps, fortunate that they were both there, for even experienced as they were, one alone might not have been able to withstand his accusing glare. "This is a strange place to meet, heir of Isildur," the king of Mirkwood finally spoke, and his voice was heavy with accusation and condescension. "Was it not you who sent my son on this mission with no more guard than a lone dwarf?"

Aragorn’s eyes hardened but aside from that he evinced no sign of the great anger Elrohir knew to be building within the king of Gondor. Aragorn opened his mouth to reply, but the next words came not from him but from the dwarf who stood beside him.

"You underestimate your son’s abilities, great king of Mirkwood, if you think he cannot stand against a press of foes with no more defense than a _lone dwarf_ ," Gimli growled, laying a hand to the haft of his axe. "And you underestimate my abilities if you mean to belittle the defense that a _lone dwarf_ might have to offer.

Thranduil glared at Gimli but made no answer, giving the impression that conversation with a dwarf was somehow beneath him. Turning his gaze fully on Aragorn, he caught the king of Gondor in a weighty stare that caused even Estel of Imladris to narrow his eyes slightly. "You did not answer my question, King Elessar. Was it not you who sent my youngest son into peril without so much as an honor guard for company?"

"King Thranduil, Lord Legolas requested specifically that only he and Gimli be sent," Aragorn said coolly. "And it is my experience that your son is more than capable of handling himself. Beyond that, we were unaware of any threat at the time that he was sent."

"Were you? Legolas and Arwen had both warned you of a deepening shadow in the mountains. And rumor has it that Lindir, Elladan, and Elrohir also expressed concern. Yet you failed to heed these warnings, much as your ancestor did despite the great sacrifice of the elves."

"Thranduil!" Elrohir said sharply, but before he could say more and before Aragorn could rise to his own defense, it was Gimli yet again who spoke up.

"How long have you sequestered yourself in Mirkwood with no thought for the outside world?" Gimli demanded, his voice becoming cold as a winter in the Misty Mountains. "Through your son I have learned that elven eyes are keen, yet your sight seems to be clouded. How is it that you have raised such an elf as Legolas? For his sake have I held my anger in check, but I see no need to watch my tongue now. You stand in the presence of heroes who have more than earned their renown, and yet you think only of prejudices and offenses long past. You may be my senior by thousands of years, Thranduil, king of Mirkwood, but by your words, you are a child."

Elrohir froze, his eyes darting to Thranduil as the king drew back in rage at the dwarf’s words. No one had spoken thus to the king of Mirkwood since the death of Oropher, and ancient elven eyes glittered as they pinned Gimli beneath all the weight of an elven lords’ wrath. But the surprises were not finished for the day, and Elrohir cringed when Aragorn suddenly began to speak, shifting Thranduil’s gaze from Gimli to himself.

"You forget yourself, my fellow king," Aragorn said, and in his voice was a hint of the commanding tone that had caused even the dead at the Stone of Erech to obey his will. "You remember not to whom you speak, nor do you remember our labors in freeing Middle Earth of Sauron’s shadow. Have I not reclaimed the throne of Gondor? And has not Gimli aided in the destruction of the Morannon and Barad-dûr? As for your earlier words, Thranduil, son of Oropher, I am not my ancestors. It is the nature of my Race to change over time, and change can be for the best. It seems that the you have forgotten that as well, and it would be wisdom to consider such things ere you speak again. Come, Gimli," Aragorn said, turning to the dwarf. "Let us see how Pippin fares and whether we may lend Lindir our aid." And with a polite nod to Thranduil and a hidden smile for Elrohir, the king of Gondor turned away. It took Gimli a moment to follow for he had to give Thranduil a taste of what it was to receive a dwarven glare, but he eventually did turn with a last look of utter contempt for Mirkwood’s king.

__

And so we are divided, Elrohir sighed, watching a plethora of emotions race across Thranduil’s face. _From both within and without, forces seek to divide us. We have lost Legolas and Merry to Orcs. We have lost cohesion and unity to prejudice. Shall we also lose the alliance between elves and men? Mayhap Elladan’s shadow does more than hide the forces of darkness. Perhaps it divides those of us who would be allies and so weakens us._

"He should never have been raised in Rivendell," Thranduil said flatly, his fists clenching and unclenching at his side. "And that dwarf should be expelled from Imladris at once."

Elrohir lifted a fair brow at this and fixed a stony gaze on the Sindarin king. "Choose your words carefully, Thranduil, for Estel is as a brother to me. I will tolerate no ill talk of him. As for Gimli, did you not hear the king of Gondor? He has earned the respect of all the free peoples of Middle Earth. Neither I nor my brother will deny him anything, and you presume much in recommending such action to me. See that you do not overstep your boundaries, king of Mirkwood, for Rivendell is far from your own realm."

Thranduil stared in shock at Elrond’s son. "Have the mortals also blinded you?"

"Strange as this may seem to one such as you, I believe the dwarf to be right," Elrohir said bluntly with a strained laugh. "Keen elven sight may be, but yours is clouded." And with these final words, the son of Elrond turned away from Thranduil, unable to tolerate the prejudices that still pervaded elven thought.

 

 

 

__

Posto sí, Arod. Posto a deri an min—Rest here, Arod. Rest and wait for us.


	8. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

"Peregrin Took?"

Pippin sighed and wondered why he was being called. Surely it was too early to begin the day. And even if it wasn’t, his head felt as though he’d spent far too long a night at the Green Dragon. He would need to sleep this one off, and he would not be able to do so if he rose. Ignoring the voice that called to him, he grunted and tried to roll over.

"Master Took, we are departing and you will be more comfortable if you are able to sit a mount rather than ride while strapped to a saddle horn from Gondor."

That last sentence was a bit too complex for Pippin’s muddled brain to comprehend, but he understood the general meaning. Someone was leaving and he was expected to come along. He also received the impression that the time of departure was a thing of some urgency. He didn’t know why he was supposed to come along, but if this speaker insisted, then the speaker would have to wait a minute or two more. Pippin had no intention of exacerbating his headache by popping awake and marching out the door.

"Here, let me. I have had to do this before. Pippin? Come, Pippin, you must rise. We have spent far too much time here."

__

Aragorn? This was an interesting development. What was Aragorn doing here? Shouldn’t he be ruling Gondor or fighting Orcs or riding horses? No, that was Eomer. Eomer was the one riding horses. _But Aragorn rides horses, too,_ he reminded himself. The hobbit sighed. He didn’t feel that the situation was making much sense and it was beginning to frustrate him. And was that a note of tension he heard in Aragorn’s voice?

"Pippin, you shall receive no dinner if we do not leave now."

Pippin had always suspected Aragorn of having a hidden penchant for cruelty. His suspicions were now validated, and he groaned, struggling to open his eyes despite the pounding of his head. Light flashed before him as figures hovering above shifted positions, and the hobbit winced as the light made his headache worse. But he had begun this process and he would see it through.

"Come, knight of Gondor. I bid thee rise, for your king is waiting."

__

Trust Aragorn to bring politics into this, Pippin thought disparagingly, feeling that the former Ranger had always been a little too formal. Why couldn’t everyone be like the hobbits? Life was meant for merriment and food, not dour conversations and meager rations. But these thoughts were not helping him, and so Pippin pushed them to the side, finally managing to open his eyes and blinking in surprise at what he saw.

"Where am I?"

"You are on the Road and were headed for Rivendell." Aragorn’s concerned face hovered above his, and the king’s gentle hand brushed across his head, looking for injuries. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Merry!" Pippin shot to his feet far too quickly for his own good, and were it not for steadying hands behind him, he would have fallen. But his weaving form was braced and the world slowly righted itself before his bleary eyes. With a gentle shake of his head, he tried to stand on his own and eventually managed it, turning around to thank whoever had steadied him. He was met by an elf with light eyes and dark hair, and a flash of familiarity hit him, though he could not say where he had seen this elf before. "Thank you," he murmured, still studying the elf until he realized that his staring might be interpreted as rudeness.

"You are most welcome, Master Took," the elf answered with a quiet laugh. "But take care the next time you change positions so quickly!"

"Lindir? Can he be moved?"

The voice had come from behind the dark-haired elf, and he hesitated, looking at Aragorn questioningly. Aragorn’s face became as a stone and he nodded ever so slightly. Taking this as an answer in the affirmative, Lindir looked back over his shoulder at another elf that reminded Pippin very much of Legolas with the exception that this elf was taller and seemed…weary. _And angry, too_ , the hobbit realized. _But…it’s a sad sort of anger. He’s worried about something._

"He can be moved if you so desire it, King Thranduil," Lindir answered, keeping a comforting hand on Pippin’s back. "But as to where he shall be moving, I know not. What say you, Lord Elrohir? Where go our companies and what of the travelers?"

"You may want to involve these travelers in your discussion," a gruff voice broke in. Gimli wandered near Pippin and gave him a quick smile as a way of congratulating him on his return to consciousness before turning his attention back to the two elves. "I have no desire to return to Rivendell unless I may do it in the company of he who rode with me. That being the case, I intend to stay here and begin searching regardless of what the vaunted elves decide."

Pippin sensed Aragorn stiffening at this comment and the hobbit wondered what had happened to make Gimli sound so upset with the elves. If he didn’t know better, Pippin would have said that the dwarf sounded exactly like he did during the first stages of the Fellowship before he and Legolas became friends. The other elf— _Lindir_ , Pippin reminded himself, now recalling that he’d seen him several times in the Hall of Fire before leaving with the Fellowship—seemed not to care what the dwarf thought. But the elf who’d been named as King Thranduil was now glaring darkly at Gimli with enough loathing to turn Pippin’s stomach.

"I had hoped that the _negyth_ had finished causing grief to me and my kindred. Were you not satisfied with the death of my wife, or must you now take my youngest son as well?"

Gimli’s grip on his axe tightened and Pippin fully expected him to lunge at Thranduil but a third elf— _Elrohir_ , the hobbit recognized—stepped between the two before aught could happen. "I have chosen some of my own elves to linger here and do what can be done in the way of tracking these Orcs. As for the rest of us, I suggest we return to Rivendell and learn how our brethren fare in their own battle with the Orcs. I know some of us long to stay here," he added with a pointed look at Aragorn and Gimli, "but I see no profit in such a move. I counsel rest while it can be obtained, and the hunt may be resumed on the morrow."

"I journeyed the length of Rohan on foot in pursuit of two comrades lost to Orcs," Gimli said quietly, his voice cold and stubborn. "If need be, I shall do so again in Eriador though none run with me."

"But in Rohan you lacked forces to back you, Master Dwarf, and there lay a clear trail before your eyes," Elrohir argued. "Here that is not the case. The Orcs have scattered north, south, east, and west. We do not know not which group was the main party, nor do we know their ultimate destination. Let others search these things out, for until we learn this information, we cannot act. Once details are found, we may pursue our enemy, and then will your axe be most welcome."

"He is right, Gimli," Aragorn sighed reluctantly. It seemed to Pippin that the king found the words distasteful but true. "We can do no good by searching now. The elves are as capable as the Rangers in this, and their senses shall not fail us. Let us save our strength for the real pursuit. Beyond that, we must see the remaining hobbits safely to Rivendell."

Pippin watched Gimli carefully for his response, but the dwarf only closed his eyes and grunted slightly. The hobbit had no idea what the translation for that might be, but Aragorn appeared satisfied. Sensing that this particular conversation was at an end, Pippin decided that it was time for answers of his own and he wasted no time in letting fly a stream of questions. "What happened, Aragorn? Where’s Merry? When did you get here? Did you find Sam and Rosie on the Road? Was Elanor all right? What about Legolas? What happened to him? Did the—"

"Peace," Aragorn interrupted with a brief but sad smile. "I see that some things will never change, my dear friend. You are as inquisitive as I remember. Patience and we shall answer all things on the ride, but we must now prepare to leave. If you will permit it, you shall ride behind Elrohir and Gimli shall ride behind me. We must journey with haste, for when we left Rivendell, we left it besieged."

"Rivendell is under attack?" Pippin gasped, his mind remembering the fair trees and archways of Imladris. "But who would attack it? We defeated Mordor!"

"We defeated Mordor, yes, but evil still lives," Gimli answered quietly. "You should know that well, Pippin, for only an hour ago it struck you down."

"Yes, and now I want to know what happened to everyone else!" Pippin exclaimed, growing frustrated as his confusion mounted. "If it isn’t Mordor, then who is it? Who attacked us and who attacked Rivendell? And where are the others? What happened?"

"Did I not promise answers during the ride?" Aragorn said, smiling in thanks at Elrohir as the half-elf brought Roheryn over to the king. "Calm yourself, Pippin, for your words make little sense and were I to give you answers, you would not be able to comprehend them. I give you my word that we will speak of this and much more on our way back to Rivendell."

Pippin knew a dodge when he saw one, but he also knew there was probably a reason for it. He’d witnessed the confusion that followed the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, and he knew from experience that analyzing what had happened after a battle took time. Consequently, the hobbit firmly quelled his impatience and said no more, following Aragorn silently as the king trailed after Elrohir. Gimli fell into step beside him, and from the dwarf came a feeling of rage and anxiety so palpable that Pippin began to edge away. There could be only one explanation for that, and some of Pippin’s questions began to be answered, though the answers only gave rise to further questions. Something had happened to Legolas. But what?!

"Come, Sir Hobbit," Elrohir called, and Pippin shook himself out of his thoughts. "By your leave, you shall ride behind me. We shall keep King Elessar close to us so that you may exchange words and learn of what has happened."

"I have dispatched Mirkwood scouts to keep your own elves company," King Thranduil said, having followed the group. "I do not slight the abilities of Imladris, but understand that one of the missing is my son."

Pippin darted a quick look at the king of Mirkwood, his mind quickly processing what had been said. _One of the missing…that means they’re missing, not dead. So there’s still hope for Legolas. But he isn’t the only one, either. And Merry isn’t around! The other one must be Merry!_

"You are, of course, welcome to direct your forces however you wish," Elrohir told Thranduil, and Pippin caught a strange degree of tension in the half-elf’s voice. "And I doubt not that additional eyes will prove useful. But we must now away, and we can discuss further operations from Rivendell once we are assured of our kinsmen’s safety." Elrohir then turned his head and whistled in a way that Pippin had heard Legolas do with Arod just after the War of the Ring. Before long, a sleek white horse came into view, tossing its head and walking straight to Elrohir. "Here is our mount, Peregrin Took," the son of Elrond said, turning to the hobbit with a smile. After stroking the horse’s arching neck, he turned, bent down, and cupped his hands. "If you will allow it, I shall boost you onto Gaearsul’s back."

"I don’t know how else I’d get up there," Pippin said, wishing for his nice, small hobbit pony. But mustering his courage, he put one foot in Elrohir’s hands and found himself practically flying upward. He landed with a hard jolt on a firm back and Gaearsul snorted in what might have been amusement. Then Elrohir was seated before him, having mounted so gracefully and so suddenly that Pippin almost assumed that he’d simply appeared out of thin air.

"I trust we are ready, Master Took?" Elrohir said with a backward glance at the hobbit. Off to his side, Aragorn and Gimli were already mounted on Roheryn and looked to be anxious about moving out. For a brief second, Pippin could picture Legolas instead of Aragorn seated before Gimli on that horse, and instead of Roheryn he saw Arod. Then the vision was gone and Pippin was left with reality.

"I am ready," he said quietly, looking up at Elrohir. "A hobbit is always ready."

"We will find them," Elrohir promised, reading the distress in Pippin’s eyes. "And when we do, let their captors beware." And having said this, Elrohir turned around and called to Gaearsul. The horse whinnied and sprang forward, leading the host of elves and men away from the clearing where Orc corpses still littered the ground and where two of their friends had been lost.

* * * *

Rose Cotton Gamgee gently stroked the golden hair of her daughter and hummed a low, soothing song. It was a song that her own mother had once sung to her when dark storms had pressed near and she had cried in terror. By now, Elanor had calmed down and was slowly drifting into a peaceful sleep. She had little need of the song, but Rosie did not hum it solely for her daughter. Much of it was for herself.

She had never seen beasts so hideous as those Orcs, as Sam called them. The cruelty and malice in their eyes drove pins into her heart. And the way they had looked at Elanor! Not a shred of compassion or guilt had flickered in their countenances. They were monsters. Beasts. Rosie shivered, her sharp mind providing her with every minute detail from her first encounter with Orcs. She had listened eagerly to Sam on those rare occasions when he would share some tidbit from his adventure and she was always ready to listen to Pippin and Merry regale one another with daring tales of heroism, but she now realized that the tales had been censored and she’d been spared the worst parts. And she doubted not but what the Orcs she’d just run from were but a small part of what her husband had endured in following Frodo to Mordor. Rosie had no basis for conceptualizing Mordor, but the legends and rumors she’d heard as a child gave her enough knowledge to know that her Sam was made of very stern stuff.

Glancing at her husband who rode abreast of her, she wondered just how much he had seen and how much he had suffered. Before marrying him, she had never left the Shire nor had she ever had the inclination to do so, but only a few months after Frodo’s departure, she and Sam had journeyed to Bree. After this first trip, they had made an almost a yearly anniversary of it, for despite all his words to the contrary, Sam had a touch of the travel bug and needed to get out of the Shire occasionally. He wasn’t nearly as bad as Pippin or Merry, who rode away from the Shire at least once a month, but that was to be expected from a Took and a Brandybuck. A Gamgee was another matter. Still, Rosie actually enjoyed the excursions, though she could never quite bring herself to trust the towering men that loomed over them every time they visited. Even Mr. Barliman Butterbur—whom Sam seemed to consider something of a strange friend—was frightening to Rosie.

The sound of voices caught her attention and she looked to see that Sam had begun speaking with one of the guards from Gondor. These soldiers…they were unlike any men she’d seen in Bree save it be the Rangers, and she’d only seen two of them from a distance on one of their trips to Bree. These men were solemn, proud of bearing with grim faces, and to even an unschooled eye, it was evident that their weapons were ready for use and that when called into such use, they could be handled with deadly expertise. Rosie found herself shying away from them, but it was more from awe than from fear and distrust. These were men not to be trifled with, and yet they still evinced signs of compassion. After the main host had ridden away down the Road, those remaining had given her and Sam nearly half an hour in which to rest and collect their scattered bearings. One had even offered to take Elanor for her and soothe the child while she soothed herself. She had refused, of course, but it did say something about the character of these guards.

And as for the elves…how did one describe an elf? They seemed completely beyond her ability to comprehend. Young and old, joyous and sad. They were walking contradictions, and Rosie shook her head, attempting to understand these strange beings that rode with them. Her husband seemed comfortable enough around them. Perhaps she should ask him to explain. Or perhaps the elf she met before the Orcs attacked… _Legolas_ …perhaps she could speak with him. He seemed to be more approachable than the elves that surrounded them. That is, perhaps she could speak with him if he came out of this alive. She’d been astonished to watch him fire his bow and she’d been entranced by the deadly dance of the dwarf’s axe, but she was not a fool and she knew that they were hopelessly outnumbered. She had protested when Merry and Pippin turned around to ride back, but she knew from the determined look in their eyes that nothing would stand between them and their friends. And that also said something about the characters of Legolas and Gimli. Merry and Pippin were willing to die for them.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, dear?" Rosie whispered, hunching over to listen to Elanor.

"I’m hungry."

"What is it, Rosie?" Sam called.

"We’ll eat soon," Rosie promised Elanor before looking up at Sam. "She’s hungry," she answered with a hopeless shrug. "I don’t suppose that you have anything to eat, do you?"

Sam grimaced and shook his head sadly. "With all our hurry to leave, I think the food ended up on Merry’s pony."

"Master Samwise? If the child is hungry, she may have some of this."

Rosie looked over just in time to see an elf toss her husband something wrapped in a green leaf. Sam smiled in thanks and hurriedly unwrapped it, revealing a small golden cake. "What is it?" Rosie asked, caught between curiosity and suspicion.

" _Lembas_ ," Sam answered with a smile, breaking off a corner and handing it to his wife for inspection. "This kept me alive for much of my trip with Frodo. Marvelous stuff, but after months of it, I found myself wishing for a change in diet."

Rosie tasted the piece she’d been given and her suspicious expression quickly changed. "This is wonderful, Sam! How could you possibly grow tired of it?"

Sam shrugged and glanced over at a few elves who’d begun to laugh. "When it’s the only thing you eat and you eat it twice a day for months on end, anything can become tiresome."

"Food?" Elanor asked hopefully, her tiny hands reaching out for the cake Sam still held. Her father broke off a larger piece and gave it to the child, smiling when it was quickly devoured.

"You like that?"

Elanor gave him an enthusiastic nod and reached for more, causing Rosie to laugh. "Gently now, or you’ll spoil your appetite."

"Is it possible to spoil a hobbit’s appetite?" one of the elves asked.

Sam laughed quietly and turned his attention to the Galadhrim. "It takes some doing, but yes, it is possible to spoil a hobbit’s appetite."

The elves looked as though they were ready and eager to pursue this conversation, but as one they suddenly stopped and a few looked behind them on the Road. Gondor’s men paused for a moment, surprised by this abrupt halt, and then Sam inhaled sharply. "What is it?" Rosie asked.

"Horses," Sam answered, even as the sound of rapid hooves began to reach Rosie’s ears.

"Do you know who it is?" she asked, wrapping a protective arm around Elanor.

Sam shook his head and glanced toward the elves. "I don’t, but I reckon that they do. Elves have a way of knowing things, and they don’t seem too upset. Maybe it’s Strider and the others."

As if on cue, a group of horses thundered around a bend in the Road far behind them. Searching the ranks, Rosie quickly found Pippin clinging to the back of a dark-haired elf and Gimli the dwarf riding behind the man that Sam had referred to as Strider. The elf named Legolas seemed to be missing, but there were a number of elves riding toward them and it was possible that she just did not recognize him. But there was no explanation for not seeing Merry, and at the moment, the Brandybuck was nowhere in sight.

They waited in tense silence as the riders approached, everyone having recognized that the returning company was smaller in size than the one that had set out and that not all could be accounted for. The faces of those leading the group were grim, and riding behind the tall elf, Pippin looked as though he might have been crying. Beside her, Rosie heard Sam’s breath catch in his throat and she could not bring herself to look at him, fearful of the despair and heartache she might see.

Her husband spurred his pony forward, his movements slow and reluctant. The approaching company stopped and for a long moment, nothing was said. It was Sam who broke the silence, and Rosie almost didn’t recognize his voice. He sounded weary, sick, and hopeless. It was as though he had given up. "What happened, Strider?" he asked thickly. "Where are the others?"

"I am sorry, Sam," the man called Strider answered, his voice quiet and sad. "By the time we reached the Orcs, they had already taken Merry and Legolas. We attacked, but they scattered too quickly. We left some of the elves to scout the area. They will find the main company of Orcs and we will mount a counterstrike."

"Taken?" Sam questioned, his brow furrowing. "They’re not dead?"

"Prisoners," Gimli spat, and Rosie shivered at the sound of despair and fear that pervaded his gruff baritone. "The Orcs were sent not to kill but to capture."

"We will find them, Master Samwise," the elf seated before Pippin promised, his eyes were cool and confident as they looked first at Sam and then at Rosie. "Elladan and I failed to find our mother in time to save her spirit, but we will not make the same mistake twice. By the Ring of my father, I swear that we shall find Merry and Legolas."

"It wasn’t enough, was it?" Sam whispered, rubbing his eyes. "Destroying Sauron wasn’t enough. Evil still lives."

"Evil has existed since the first notes of Ilúvatar’s song, and it will continue to exist until the song is finished," the elf answered. "Its survival is no fault of yours. Do not lessen your deeds, Master Samwise, for the Valar themselves praise your accomplishments."

"Besides, have you ever heard Elrohir promise something he can’t give?" Pippin added, leaning around the elf to flash Sam his most reassuring grin, though to Rosie’s sharp eyes, the smiled looked forced. "Legolas can take care of himself and Merry…" The hobbit’s voice suddenly cracked and he shook his head sharply, quickly regaining his composure. "If I know Merry," he continued, struggling valiantly to maintain control, "those Orcs are in more trouble than they bargained for. They’ll probably give him back to us just to get him off their hands."

Sam smiled and nodded, his own expression coming off just as forced as Pippin’s, but at least they were making an attempt to remain calm. "You’re right, Pippin," Sam said. "Merry’s probably eaten them out of hole and lair already. And Legolas will have talked their ears off about trees and stars, right Gimli?"

The dwarf grunted and looked away, his dark eyes searching the eaves of the forest. Before him, Aragorn sighed, and nudged Roheryn forward. "Come. The hour grows late and we can do no more here. Let us return to Rivendell and assure ourselves of its safety. From there, more plans can be made and we can better see to the rescue of our friends."

"For my part, I would wish to learn more of this trees and stars talk," the elf called Elrohir added, attempting to lighten the situation. "Am I to understand that hobbits and dwarves have no appreciation for the things that grace Arda?"

"How could they?" another elf said sharply. Rosie cringed at his voice and shivered. This elf was very tall, his shoulders were broad, and the golden hair of his head seemed to shine with an inner light. But for all his fairness, his eyes were cold and unforgiving. "They are mortals, Elrohir. What do they know of the greater things in Arda?"

More than one elf began murmuring at this, but Elrohir held up his hand for silence and Rosie shivered again, but this time out of respect rather than fear. "You have Imladris’s welcome and hospitality, King Thranduil. Do not abuse such a gift. I will hear no more prejudices from you. I respect you as an elven lord of great renown as well as my elder and my father’s ally, but do not test the strength of such bonds."

A very tense silence descended and Rosie found herself twisting her pony’s reins in her hands. Not understanding what was happening but sensing that something was wrong, Elanor looked up from her wafer of _lembas_ and studied the gathering of elves and men with the wide, innocent eyes of a hobbit child. Searching one face after another, her somber, serious countenance suddenly brightened and a wide grin swept her face.

"Bush!"

The tense silence abruptly dissolved into confusion, and Gimli blinked, realizing that he was being addressed. Aragorn glanced from hobbit to dwarf, the corners of his mouth twitching as he attempted to imagine what brought this about, and then the elves began to laugh. There were even a few grins among the sober guards of Gondor.

"That’s right, young one," Gimli said quietly as Aragorn brought Roheryn alongside Rosie’s pony. "A very full and a very fine bush. Have you begun to grow yours yet?" There was still a touch of worry in the dwarf’s voice, but he did manage to smile at Elanor

"Up," Elanor commanded, lifting her arms out to the dwarf and wriggling against her mother’s protective grip. Gimli looked hesitantly at Aragorn and Rosie, but Rosie was having problems holding the young hobbit and had to give in, as Elanor was clearly intent on reaching Gimli.

"This is a side of you that I have not seen," Aragorn commented with a small smile as he reached down and lifted Elanor up, placing her in Gimli’s lap.

"The young must be taught to honor courage and strength early," the dwarf replied testily, wrapping one arm around the child as she happily entwined her hands in his beard and leaned against his chest. "What better example of courage and strength could you ask for? Time around me shall do her good."

"I doubt not that Legolas had much to say about this," Aragorn said, his smile faltering.

"He will answer for his words," Gimli promised. "Should we not be on our way so that we may see about getting that elf out of the Orcs’ hands and into mine?"

"You speak wisely, Gimli," Elrohir said, moving his horse toward the front of the company. "Let us depart. Rivendell awaits and plans must be made. Forward!"

With his cry, the host set out, keeping the pace slow enough to accommodate the hobbit ponies but still fast enough to strain those ponies to their utmost. The mood of the company had lightened considerably thanks in part to Elanor, but a shadow of fear and dread still hung over them. Evil had touched what was meant to be a time of celebration, and the stain of this incursion would not soon vanish.

* * * *

Standing beneath an old tree near the Ford, Arwen could not help remembering other times when she had stood thus. For years, the daughter of Elrond had looked for the coming of Aragorn beneath this tree in Imladris or beside another like it in Lothlórien. A mortal might say she had spent a cumulative of many years engaged in simply standing beneath a tree, and though her elvish sense of time did not truly measure the passing years, she would be inclined to agree with a mortal assessment of her wait. It had been many long years and many severe hardships before she and Aragorn could claim what was now theirs. And just as they were given the chance to enjoy a reprieve from the onslaught of evil, evil had come again.

Behind her came a gentle snort and then Hasufel nudged her shoulder. Catching his strong, gray face in her hands, she stroked his muzzle and leaned her cheek against his. "Only a little longer, dear one," she whispered. "They shall come soon and then you may return to your manger. You have my word."

The horse nickered softly and moved away, lowering his head and sniffing at the tender shoots that were beginning to sprout from the rich, dark earth. Arwen sighed and trailed her hand along his back, wishing that she might be as carefree. There were times when she cursed the burden of her heritage and the responsibilities of Aragorn’s lineage. It seemed to her that the simple folk received more joy and satisfaction in a day than she would receive in a lifetime. While they went on about their lives, she and Aragorn played politics with Khand, Harad, and Rhûn in order to protect these simple people. She spent sleepless nights pouring over treaties and agreements while Aragorn rode far with companies of armed men in an attempt for foster alliances and cow enemies. And ignorant of all this, the simple people laughed, cried, and celebrated.

__

I was raised and taught to lead, Arwen reminded herself. _The responsibility is mine for the knowledge is mine. And in fulfilling my obligations, I allow the simple people to remain simple._ So her father had told her and so Aragorn had explained it, but despite their words, she sometimes wished she did not have the knowledge necessary to deal with foreign kingdoms and internal strife. Then she could be as the simple people. But such a gift was denied her, and for better or worse, she was Arwen Undómiel, the Evening Star of her people and the queen of Gondor. She had waited years before she was allowed to wed Aragorn, and she could certainly wait a few hours for his return to Rivendell.

Arwen leaned against the tree, pressing up against its bark and vaguely sensing that life within with elven senses diminished by mortality. Elladan had tried to dissuade her from standing here, saying they had no way of knowing when Elrohir and Aragorn would return. But after returning to the main porch with Elladan and Celeborn and spending an hour or so with them as they plotted counter-strategy, Arwen had found that her mind was wandering as her thoughts continued to stray to her husband. After a moment of internal debate, she had excused herself and come here, ignoring Elladan’s objections. _Elladan always was too protective of me_ , she thought with a sad smile. She knew well the reason for her brother’s obstinacy. There was the possibility that something had gone wrong on the Road, and if she waited here for the return of Aragorn and for some reason he did not come, she would be the first to learn of it. Elladan would seek to shield her from that, absorbing the news first himself and then attempting to relay it to his sister in a way that would make it less painful.

But Arwen did not wish for the easy path, as Elrohir had learned and accepted over time but Elladan had not. And so she stood here waiting, knowing that she might be the first in Imladris to hear of a dreadful defeat but also knowing that she might be the first to hear of great victory. Either way, she intended to wait by this tree until news came from the west, and if that wait took all night, so be it!

Fortunately for both Arwen and Hasufel, such a wait was not required. At that moment, the thudding sound made by galloping hooves reached their ears. Arwen stepped away from her tree and moved closer to the Bruinen River, struggling to hear to the sound of approaching riders over the sound of rushing waters. There were many running horses, she could tell that now, but of what kind they were she did not know. Still, the chances were heavily against this being a company of strangers and Arwen felt a small surge of impatience as she watched the Road beyond the river, mentally willing that first horse to come into view.

Sensing that this long wait next to the river might be coming to an end, Hasufel moved toward Arwen and perked his ears up, watching with her as the sound of hooves drew closer. After a moment or two, he lifted his head high and whinnied, calling to his comrades and bidding them to make haste, for he was tired and wished to return to his stable. Answering neighs came back to him and as the sun began to sink into the western horizon, a white elven stallion suddenly broke from the trees and galloped toward the Ford, closely followed by elven riders, guards of Gondor, and two hobbit ponies.

Arwen’s eyes immediately went to Aragorn’s face, and she breathed a sigh of relief at the simple knowledge that he was alive and seemed unhurt. But her relief vanished quickly as the company drew closer, for she could see the lines of tension around his mouth and eyes. Pressing her lips together tightly and steeling herself to hear the worst, Arwen turned and swiftly mounted Hasufel, prodding the horse forward to meet the returning warriors.

The riders were now crossing the Ford. The cold river water was high with the beginning of snowmelt from the mountains to the north and the hobbit ponies were occasionally swimming, but the rest of the company had the hobbits surrounded and there was no fear of their being swept down stream. Now that the returning group was so close, Arwen stopped Hasufel atop the eastern bank and made a quick count. It did not take her long to realize that this company was smaller than the one that had set out. Her heart began to sink and then she focused her attention on exactly who was returning.

Her first shock was seeing a riderless horse following the leaders closely. "Arod," she murmured, and then she began searching the returning riders in earnest. She soon found Pippin behind Elrohir and Gimli behind Aragorn. The dwarf had a sleeping hobbit child before him, which confused Arwen. Shaking her head, she pushed the matter aside for the moment and looked to the riders of the hobbit ponies, picking out Sam and a hobbit that she assumed to be Sam’s wife. _Rosie_ , she told herself, remembering letters she and Aragorn had received from Frodo and Gandalf ere they left for the Havens. Arwen then searched the rest of the company, finding King Thranduil and other familiar faces, but there were two very important people she could not find. Legolas and Merry were missing.

"Aragorn?" she called softly as Roheryn stepped out of the river and shook himself slightly. Aragorn looked up at her call and his face softened for a moment.

"Have you been waiting long, _melethin_?"

"No longer than you have been waiting for me," Arwen replied. It was the answer she had always given when Aragorn returned from the Wilds, just as his was the question he had always asked when he found Arwen waiting for him. For one brief moment, the years died away and they returned to a time when they were young and nothing was impossible. Innocent years that whispered of the simple life Arwen had only recently longed for. Then the moment vanished, the years of hardship and pain fell back upon them, and the realities of the present demanded their attention.

"Hare fare our people, sister?" Elrohir asked, moving Gaearsul up the bank and stopping him next to Hasufel.

"The Orcs were driven back, but their retreat was so sudden as to be suspicious," Arwen answered. "We believe that our early guesses were right—the attack was only a delay. Lord Celeborn has dispatched scouts of Lórien to patrol the forests and determine where the foul creatures’ lair might be, but I judge we shall not hear from them for some time. Beyond that, Lothlórien’s archers now stand ready behind the scouts of Imladris should Orcs attack again, and defenses are more in order so that we may respond quickly."

Elrohir nodded, absorbing the information easily, and then turned back to survey the company he had led. "I suppose you wonder what has befallen us."

"Your numbers are fewer than when you left," Arwen said, backing Hasufel up slightly as Aragorn sent Roheryn up the embankment.

"Fewer, yes, but our own company suffered no casualties," Elrohir answered. "We have sent out scouts and trackers, and they now trail the Orcs we found upon the Road."

"And what of those you rode to meet?" Arwen asked, looking to Aragorn. "How do they fare?"

Aragorn sighed and glanced over his shoulder at Gimli. The dwarf seemed isolated and withdrawn, his eyes locked on the innocent face of Elanor as he gently rocked her sleeping form. With a shake of his head, the king of Gondor grimaced and looked back at Arwen. "We did not arrive in time. Legolas and Merry were taken prisoner."

Arwen’s voice caught in her throat. She stared at Aragorn in horror before a muffled sob behind her caught their mutual attention. Elrohir twisted around and laid a consoling hand on Pippin’s back as the hobbit struggled to control his emotions. "We went through this before," Pippin whispered, blinking his eyes rapidly. "We thought we’d never have to do it again, and this time, I’m not with Merry. He hates Orcs. Merry hates Orcs with a passion for what they did to us and all they put us through. And they were under orders not to harm us! What if that’s not true now? What if—"

"Peace," Aragorn soothed. "We do not know the answers to your questions, nor could we do anything to change the situation even if we did."

Pippin sighed and nodded, still struggling to regain a tenuous control over his volatile emotions. Arwen’s heart went out to him, but she could offer no words of comfort. She remembered when her own mother was captured by the Orcs and she remembered the rage she had felt and how she longed to ride with Elrohir and Elladan as they pursued the goblins into the mountains. Trying to take her mind off the hideous memories, she looked about for a change of subject and found it in the hobbits who were now encouraging their ponies up the embankment toward the rest of the gathering company.

"Welcome back to Rivendell, Samwise Gamgee," she said, forcing her voice to remain steady and calm.

Sam looked up, surprised at being addressed, and his eye widened. "Thank you, Queen Arwen," he stammered, at a loss for what to say to the beautiful half-elf.

Arwen smiled. "To the companion of the Ring-bearer, I am but Arwen. Would you introduce me to this hobbit who rides beside you, Master Samwise?"

Sam blushed and turned to Rosie, who was staring wide-eyed at Arwen. "Rosie, this is Arwen, daughter of Elrond. She’s Aragorn’s wife and queen of Gondor. Arwen, this is Rose Cotton Gamgee, my wife. And over there in Gimli’s arms is Elanor, my daughter."

"A lovely wife and a beautiful daughter," Arwen said, nodding her head at Rosie by way of a greeting. "You have been greatly blessed, Samwise."

"I also have a son," Sam said proudly, drawing himself up slightly. "His name’s Frodo, but we left him home with the Gaffer for this trip." His smile faltered and he blinked, glancing at Gimli and Pippin. "It’s a good thing we did, too. I don’t know as I could take putting him in harm’s way. Rosie and Elanor is enough already."

"Come," Elrohir said, breaking the silence that descended at Sam’s words. "The sun is setting and night is an ill time to speak of such things. We shall rest for now and resume our counsels in the morning. Places have been prepared for all and it is my wish that you take what sleep you can." He said this with a hard look at both Aragorn and Gimli. Aragorn shrugged and gave him a half-hearted smile, but Gimli was still staring at Elanor and refused to meet the half-elf’s eyes. Elrohir sighed and turned Gaearsul, moving the horse forward toward Rivendell. Arwen followed and Aragorn quickly assumed a position beside her.

"Are you truly well?" Arwen asked, scrutinizing her husband.

"In body, yes," Aragorn answered with a heavy sigh. "But I fear my mind is filled with misgivings. This was no ordinary attack. Our own movements were known to the enemy, and he means to do something with the prisoners that have been taken. What the result will be I cannot guess, but we must act quickly or I fear it will be too late."

"I share your fears," Arwen whispered, smoothing a portion of Hasufel’s mane. "But without the reports of the scouts, we are powerless to move. We must know more of our enemy."

"Which is why I shall leave tomorrow morning," Aragorn said. "I know that this celebration was supposed to allow us at least a few moments of peace, but I will not sit idle while others search for dear friends. My apologies, Arwen, but I can do no less."

"And I would expect no less." Arwen smiled and reached over to squeeze her husband’s solid arm. "With your keen eyes and skills, our friends shall be returned to us soon. Have faith. You have not come so far only to falter now."

"Your words bring me hope, Arwen, as do they always."

"It is you who is hope, Estel," Arwen answered. "But let us no longer speak of this. As Elrohir said, it is ill talk for night when things are already shadowed. I would let our silence be our comfort, and I would enjoy your company while it remains beside me."

Aragorn smiled and nodded, his hand reaching out to Arwen. She immediately slid her hand into his and together in a silence that spoke louder than words, they returned to Rivendell. The night was still dark and the world was still shadowed, but it seemed that a ray of hope gleamed brightly that evening, for hope will live so long as there are those who believe in it.

 

 

 

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Negyth—Dwarves (Plural form of _nogoth,_ which means "a dwarf" but carries with it the connotation of being stunted.)

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Melethin—Beloved


	9. Scattered Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

Haldir held completely still, frozen in position and concealed by the dense foliage of the tree in which he waited. In another tree close by, he could make out the form of his brother Rúmil, who was also completely silent and still. The woods around them trembled under the onslaught of a darkness that was anything but natural, and beneath them, a group of eleven Orcs stomped past, heedless of the elven eyes that followed their movements. Speaking quietly in their guttural tongue, the Orcs soon disappeared to the north, heading toward the ancient kingdom Rhudaur, where the threat of trolls had kept long held Rivendell at bay. None knew if trolls still haunted those forsaken forests and hills. Some had ventured theories that when Sauron’s darkness fell, perhaps it also destroyed the evils left in Eriador. But after seeing as many Orcs in this single night as he was accustomed to seeing in a month of guard duty along Lothlórien’s western borders, Haldir was fairly certain that trolls probably still roamed those ancient hills to the north.

The forest was silent again, but the feeling of oppressive darkness did not leave and even the stars seemed dim. Straightening from his crouch, Haldir dropped out of the tree and crept onto the trail left by the foul Orcs. He heard Rúmil move in the branches above and knew his brother was quietly following the Orcs from the trees, attempting to learn more of their movements and destination. Haldir followed silently on the ground, looking for clues they might have left behind in their passing. After several long minutes of this, his sharp ears caught the sound of Rúmil jumping down from a tree ahead of him and he looked up as his brother approached.

"They are veering east and will skirt the southern boundary of Rhudaur," Rúmil reported with a shake of his head. "I wonder if their only job is to wander at will, for it seems that none of the Orcs we found have a set destination."

"Perhaps we should call Orophin back," Haldir murmured, glancing to the west. Several hours ago, they had come across a large body of thirty Orcs. Orophin had left to pursue them while Rúmil and Haldir followed a trail that seemed to indicate the presence of an even bigger party. But after an hour of searching, Haldir had realized that the trail they followed had been made by several groups of Orcs passing this way. And under the darkness of night as well as the darkness of an unnatural shadow, Haldir could not determine the numbers of Orcs, whether they had been the same Orcs, or even if they’d been going the same direction as their comrades.

"What is their plan?" Rúmil hissed, clenching his hands in frustration.

Haldir shook his head wordlessly, going back over the situation. This scouting mission had been among the oddest and most confounding tasks he had ever undertaken. Their objectives were simple enough: find the trail of the Orcs, estimate their numbers, and discover the location of their lair. The first part had been easy. Too easy, in fact, for they found not one, not two, but many different Orc trails weaving in and out of the lands north of Rivendell. And the multitude of trails made it impossible to estimate the number of Orcs that had passed through this area within the last twenty-four hours. They had come upon several small parties of Orcs, but there were so many of them and they were so scattered that they provided no method of estimating the size of the entire body. And as for discovering the Lair…Haldir sighed. Rúmil was right in this, for it seemed that many of the Orcs had no direction and were under orders to simply wander. It was quite an effective way to foil the elven scouts who tracked them, and not for the first time this night, Haldir wondered who commanded these Orcs.

"Come," Rúmil suddenly said, brushing past Haldir with an angry air. Rúmil had never been a particularly patient elf, and especially on missions where success kept slipping further and further away, his temper had a tendency to flare up. "Let us find Orophin and hear what he has to say. Dawn is not far off and we should head back to report our findings."

"Or lack of findings," Haldir sighed. As the oldest of these three brothers, it was his job to keep them in line but that proved to be a difficult task given Rúmil’s lack of patience and Orophin’s excess of patience. Orophin was want to follow a task well past the time when such a task could be accounted finished, seeking out every possibility and every conceivable twist in a situation. Haldir seriously doubted that Orophin would agree to head back to Rivendell, particularly when all they could report was that the Orcs seemed to be scattered far and wide across Eriador with no apparent direction or base. But Rúmil was clearly coming to the end of his patience, and Haldir wondered how the inevitable confrontation would play out.

"Are you coming or do you prefer simply to stand here?"

__

This will most certainly be interesting, Haldir thought, obediently and silently falling into step behind Rúmil. The moment Rúmil began throwing insults around was the moment his patience snapped. It was also the moment Orophin usually became absolutely quiet, allowed his older brother to expend all his anger, and then calmly refused whatever course Rúmil suggested. As the youngest of the three, it was curious to Haldir that Orophin possessed the most patience, but such was the case and that patience extended not only to guard duty and scouting missions. It also covered arguments with his two older brothers, and even Haldir had occasionally found himself at a loss for words when confronting Orophin. It would not be easy to convince him to leave off this search and return to Rivendell.

But at the same time, Rúmil was one Lórien’s best scouts. He had hunted Orcs since he was old enough to draw a bow, and his skills far surpassed both Haldir’s and Orophin’s in his ability to sense the intentions of Orcs and their direction. If he believed there was nothing more to discover here, he was probably correct. Of all of them, he had spent the most time along Lórien’s northern and western borders. He could sense an Orc when it was still several miles away, and with a single glance he could tell its breeding, its capability, and its objective.

Haldir ground his teeth together as he followed Rúmil’s fleeting form. The decision would ultimately be his to make, for his two brothers would be unable to convince one another and he would be looked to as the deciding vote. _And mother told me it was my job to lead them_ , he thought with a shake of his head. _More often than not, I but follow, and when they do consider my presence, it is to ask me to decide what they cannot._

They now passed the point where Orophin had separated to follow the other Orc party, and Haldir turned his mind to searching the ground for tracks of those Orcs, hoping that the trail did not split. If it did and Orophin left nothing to indicate which direction he took—a failing Orophin occasionally had—then he and Rúmil would be forced to either split up or choose one of the trails and follow it together. Haldir supposed they could always whistle for Orophin, but the Orcs on the northern boundary had been Uruk-hai, and they were not so easily fooled by elven whistles. The signals might reveal their position and turn the hunters into the prey and the prey into the hunters.

"I sense Orcs to the side," Rúmil suddenly hissed. "Continue on the trail and I shall join you momentarily."

"Go carefully, brother," Haldir warned. Rúmil nodded curtly and then leaped into the trees, disappearing from sight quickly. Haldir now slowed his pace somewhat, for he no longer had Rúmil to watch his back for him while he watched the trail. With senses trained on both his surroundings and the path left by the Orcs, it became more difficult to navigate but not impossible. Haldir had played this game many times in Lothlórien, and never yet had he lost.

After several more miles of quick but careful tracking, Haldir came to a halt and inwardly groaned. The Orcs had separated, going three different directions judging by what he could make out in the darkness. Haldir swiftly climbed into the surrounding trees, searching for a sign left by Orophin to indicate which party he followed. As fate would have it, he found nothing, and Haldir immediately began forming a reprimand even as he cursed quietly with frustration. The last time this had happened, he and Rúmil had spent the better part of the day looking for Orophin while an Orc hunting party blundered across the Nimrodel and almost into the Celebrant before they were caught and killed.

Movement on the ground caught his eye and he froze, searching the area. The movement reappeared and he let loose a breath he’d been holding. Dropping out of the trees, he waved Rúmil over. "I trust you found more Orcs?"

"It was a small party, one I could have dispatched with ease."

"Lord Celeborn expressly forbade—"

"I know and I did not act, though I was sorely tempted," Rúmil said with a slight growl. "In any case, they pose no threat to us and are traveling in the opposite direction. Have you found aught here?"

"The trail splits into three directions," Haldir said, indicating the paths taken by the Orcs. "Unfortunately, Orophin left no indication as to which trail he followed."

"Elbereth!" Rúmil swore, throwing his hands up into the air. "Will he never learn?"

"I suspect it will take several centuries for lessons to truly have an effect," Haldir sighed with a shake of his head. "He becomes too obsessed with his quarry and forgets such precautions as must be taken for the sake of prudence and safety. Be that as it may, we now come to a difficult choice. Shall we both take separate directions and assign a time for returning here should we find naught, or shall we choose ourselves a trail together and pray it leads us to our errant brother?"

Rúmil was silent for a moment, his expression rather vacant and his head cocked to one side as though listening. "I sense no Orcs in the immediate area."

"That will change should we whistle," Haldir warned, seeing immediately where his brother’s train of thought was leading. "And there is no guarantee that Orophin will be able to signal back, for he may be near the Orcs himself."

Rúmil assumed a scowl that Orophin had once dubbed his dwarven expression and folded his arms across his chest. "We will cover more ground if we separate, yet we run the risk of losing one another. And I have not your talent for tracking. If a trail diverges, in this darkness I may miss it."

"Dawn is perhaps an hour away," Haldir said. "We could take a trail together and if we find nothing, we could return and split, for then we would have daylight and you could better see the signs by which you track."

With a nod, Rúmil turned to evaluate the three separate options. "Which way do you think we should go?"

"The center track seems to be the one most recently used as well as the one most of the Orcs have taken. Let us follow that trail for a bit and see if it leads us to any answers. Come!"

Haldir set out and Rúmil dutifully fell into step behind him, keeping a sharp eye out for Orcs while his brother sped along the trail. They had gone perhaps a mile when Rúmil suddenly laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder and stopped him. "I believe Orophin is just ahead, but it is difficult to tell."

"Up," Haldir whispered, leaping into the branches above and moving aside as Rúmil did the same. They continued silently, keeping sight of the Orc’s trail through the glimpses they caught between the thick boughs of the trees. It was yet early in the spring, but the winter had been mild and foliage was thick, further complicating matters. But it did provide the elven scouts with places to hide, and for that they were thankful.

A sigh of relief suddenly escaped Haldir as a lithe figure suddenly leaped into the tree branches before the two brothers, but he quickly schooled his expression into one of anger and disappointment. "The trail split a mile ago, brother. Why did you not leave us a sign to indicate your chosen course?"

Stepping into a patch of moonlight, Orophin blinked and then offered a sheepish smile. "My apologies, brothers. But I have something you both must see. Hurry and follow!"

"Orophin, we can do no more good out here, for these Orcs are but decoys," Rúmil said, beginning to lay forth his reasons for returning to Rivendell. Haldir silently groaned and began looking around for somewhere to sit this argument out until he was needed, but Orophin’s response surprised him and he found himself being drawn back into the conversation.

"You are right, Rúmil. Most of these Orcs are decoys, but I believe that the Orcs I have followed are heading home. Their trail disappears into darkness, and I cannot see whither they go. Come, you must look upon this!"

Orophin’s brothers exchanged baffled looks. "Their trail disappears?" Haldir echoed.

"It is like a shadow, but it is not a shadow," Orophin explained, dropping to the ground and starting off. "Come!"

Once again, Haldir and Rúmil exchanged puzzled expressions, but their only choice was to follow unless they wished to leave their youngest brother in the forests north of Rivendell. "I am tying him up and leaving him home the next time we are asked to scout an area," Rúmil growled, leaping off his branch and landing in a low crouch before starting after Orophin. Haldir sighed and followed, wondering exactly what Orophin had been babbling about.

By the time Orophin stopped long enough for his brothers to catch up with him, they were close enough to the southern boundaries of Rhudaur for Haldir’s nerves to be on edge. There was definitely an ill feel about that reeked of trolls, and Haldir’s eyes roved from shadow to shadow while his mental clock counted down the seconds to the safety of sunrise.

"Here," Orophin whispered, his voice low. "Follow this trail and you will see what I mean."

"We should not be here, Orophin," Rúmil hissed, apparently just as nervous as Haldir was. There were still several minutes until sunrise and the presence of malignant evil was so palpable that it sent shivers up and down their spines.

"So long as we are careful and quiet, we will be safe. Is that not what you tell me when we venture beyond the safety of Lórien?"

__

Trust Orophin to use our own words against us. Haldir grimaced, glanced helplessly at Rúmil, and then bent his eyes to the Orc trail Orophin indicated. Relying on Rúmil’s sharp senses to warn them all of danger ere they stumbled into it, Haldir forged ahead swiftly, knowing that the sooner they observed whatever it was that Orophin wished to show them, the sooner they could leave.

And then it happened. Just as Orophin had said, the trail vanished. Haldir stopped short, staring at the ground before him in confusion. The Orc trail clearly led to this point and insofar as his highly honed tracking abilities could determine, the Orcs had been traveling this direction and had not turned back. But the trail on the ground stopped cold right here. It did not proceed further forward but vanished into the unnatural darkness of the night. Haldir cast a suspicious look up into the trees, almost expecting to see a large company of Uruk-hai leering down at them, but there was nothing. Yet such a thing was impossible! Orcs did not simply vanish into thin air, and unless the laws of nature and fortune had taken an abrupt change for the worse, Orcs did not fly. Where had they gone?

"You see?" Orophin whispered at his side. "I was following these Orcs using their trail, for there were enough of them that I took no risk of being seen. But when I reached this point, I could still hear their fell voices yet the trail simply…ends."

A highly suspicious Rúmil bent down to the ground, running a hand experimentally along the rich soil. "I can feel that Orcs have come this way. The very earth groans at their passing. And yet they have left no mark. What devilry is this?"

"Perhaps the sun may aid us," Orophin said, nodding toward the Misty Mountains. A glimmer of light was beginning to appear over their peaks and Haldir felt a sigh of relief escape him as the fear of trolls dwindled. The foul creatures would be forced to hide in dark places now, and so long as he and his brothers stayed in open areas, there was no need to fear them.

Shafts of sunlight were now streaming past them through the heavy boughs of the trees, and Haldir turned to examine the trail more thoroughly. But what he saw made him gasp and he took an involuntarily step backwards. Before him, waves of darkness undaunted by the growing light seemed to ripple across the ground, moving back and forth over the path of the Orcs in a wide swath and enveloping all in the chilling grasp of an unnatural shadow. It was as though a black cloud of mist coated the earth, masking the ground against even elven sight and sending shivers of fear up and down the spines of the three elves. Retreating slowly, they watched together in horror as the glory of the morning was stained by this ugly wave of shadow.

"Back," Haldir hissed at length, taking the arms of his stunned brothers. "We must report this to Lord Celeborn. This is not something we can confront on our own."

* * * *

As the first rays of the sun glanced off the rooftops of Rivendell, Aragorn girded Anduril about his waist and stepped out onto a balcony. Fate seemed to be playing an interesting game, for Aragorn swiftly noticed that it was the same balcony where only the day before, Legolas had begged leave to escort the hobbits. The king of Gondor cursed quietly, remembering that moment and his fateful words that had, for all intents and purposes, doomed Legolas and Merry to the torments of the Orcs. Thranduil was right. Given the warnings he’d already received about the shadow in the mountains, he should have sent the honor guard with Legolas and Gimli as extra protection. How could he have not seen this? And why had he not hearkened to the voice of prudence? Aragorn cursed again, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head. Gandalf had warned him of this. Five years ago, Gandalf had cautioned him against hasty action, but he had not remembered when he granted Legolas’s request.

__

If I may counsel you in the use of your own, do not use it—yet! Be wary!

When have I been hasty or unwary, who have waited and prepared for so many long years?

Never yet. Do not then stumble at the end of the road. *

"Alas, dear friend, it was not the end of the road but the path that lay beyond. It is there where I stumbled, and now others must pay the price for it," Aragorn murmured, remembering that conversation over Orthanc’s palantír. He leaned his arms against the balcony railing and settled his head on the smooth wood, sighing with frustration and guilt. So cut off from the rest of the world was he that he jumped when a pair of soft hands began kneading the tight muscles of his shoulders, though he swiftly relaxed as the massage became deeper.

"Now is not the time for recriminations, Elessar," Arwen whispered gently, moving her hands down his back and smiling as Aragorn relaxed completely beneath her touch. "Legolas and Gimli chose to meet the hobbits. You are not accountable for their decisions. Had you sent the honor guard, they would still have gone, for Thranduil drove them to it."

"An honor guard might have prevented their capture."

"Perhaps," Arwen said, moving her massage down further and attacking the lower back muscles. "But you do not know that with any certainty and so blame has no purpose. This was not something you could have prevented, my husband. One way or another, our hobbits friends would have been attacked on the road. The attack was news for even my brothers, and they have been wardens of Imladris for centuries. If you must indulge in guilt, at least share that guilt with others."

"You know me too well to ask that of me," Aragorn sighed, straightening and snagging Arwen by the waist. Pulling her to him, he moaned as her body melded against his solid form and her lips captured his in a kiss born as much from need and sorrow as from passion. They stayed locked thus for perhaps a minute before Aragorn reluctantly pulled back. "I must leave, love. Already I rue the night spent here when it might have been spent looking for Legolas and Merry."

"Then come, for I shall walk with you to the stable," Arwen said, taking Aragorn’s hand and moving away from the balcony and into the house. "I gather you have not informed Imhran or your guards of your intentions," she said as they walked through the twisting corridors.

"Nay. This country is strange to them and they would be of little use in the forests."

"I see. You do know that I shall require recompense for placating them after they demand to know where you have gone. And I do not think I can stop them from following you if Imhran takes it into his head to do so. He can be as stubborn as you, Estel."

"As for the recompense, you shall have it and more when this is over," Aragorn promised with a sly grin and wink, which gave Arwen cause to blush though her eyes sparkled mischievously. "And as for Imhran, he may do as he wishes, though unless he enlists the aid of Elladan and Elrohir, I doubt he shall be able to find me."

The words had barely left Aragorn’s mouth when they turned a corner and stopped. Waiting rather impatiently in the main hall stood Gimli, Imhran, a few of Gondor’s best guards, Elrohir, Elladan, and Celeborn. Aragorn shot an accusing look at Arwen, but she shrugged and shook her head, indicating that she had no part in any of this. A laugh caught their attention and they turned as Elrohir smiled, albeit his smile was laced with worry and fear.

"You are too predictable, Aragorn, though I do admit that we were beginning to worry. It is unlike you to start so late in the day and we wondered if you had not left in the middle of the night." He cast a curious glance at his sister, but Arwen’s face was innocently blank.

"Might I ask what all this is?" Aragorn demanded.

"No more and no less than what is needed," Elladan said. "As we speak, we are gathering trackers and scouts from Imladris. They shall meet us by the Ford and from there we all shall join the hunt that takes place in the wilderness of Eriador."

The king of Gondor said nothing for a moment, wondering why he hadn’t anticipated this, and then a smile broke over his face. With a shake of his head, he laughed and clapped Elrohir on the arm. "Come then, for your company is welcome."

"But you cannot all go," Arwen said, her dark eyes locking on those of her brother. "These Orcs have already shown no compunctions about attacking Imladris itself and we can ill afford to be caught with our defenses elsewhere should they choose to attack again."

"We have discussed this already sister, and it has been decided that Celeborn and I will stay with the bulk of the forces here in Rivendell," Elrohir answered, and Aragorn winced to hear the reluctance in his voice. Rivendell was the last place Elrohir wanted to be at the moment, for if there were foes to be followed and enemies to be fought, his place was on the battlefield, not in the fort. But necessity dictated their stations now, and on a hunt, Elladan was actually the better twin. His senses were unrivaled and his ability for anticipating an enemy’s movements was uncanny. Beyond this, Aragorn was getting a sense of guilt from Elladan that he’d felt only when the twins spoke of their mother, Celebrían. It seemed that Elladan was attempting to assume full responsibility in failing to sense the attack of the Orcs and was looking to make amends. Whatever the case was, be it guilty conscience, abilities, or a combination of the two, Aragorn could not deny that he was more than glad for his foster brother’s company.

"Then if our forces are gathered and our plans are set, let us depart," Aragorn said, loosening Anduril within its scabbard and moving toward the door with Arwen at his side. "The sun rises and I would see us on the trail ere much more time passes. Who shall be traveling with us?"

"A few of your own men," Elladan said. "Myself, Gimli, perhaps fifteen more or so from Imladris though that number is uncertain. Thranduil expressed an interest in coming as well, but he was called away ere you arrived and has not been seen since. And perhaps that is for the best," Elrond’s oldest son sighed, sharing a frustrated look with his twin. "The tension that arises whenever he and Gimli are in the same area is something not easily stomached, and Elrohir tells me that you have not made a favorable impression with the king of Mirkwood, either."

"The king of Mirkwood deserves all he receives and more," Gimli growled, speaking for the first time since Aragorn’s arrival and fingering the blade of his axe as he walked. The company stepped into the sunlight and all blinked at the sudden change in brightness, but Gimli’s eyes remained as hard as ever. "I have tried to convince my people that our grudge with the elves is foolishness, but there are older dwarves who balk at this and I see now that the same is true of the elves."

"Not all _older_ elves fall into your category, Gimli," Celeborn said. "Though I also held many grievances with your people, Galadriel did not and through her eyes I learned differently. There is hope for both our peoples, friend dwarf. And there is also hope for today. Seek the stables and mount! Elrohir and I shall keep careful watch from Imladris, and if we have aught to report, we shall send word immediately."

"Hold!"

Everyone froze and Aragorn wondered if Rivendell’s front porch might not be cursed. Only yesterday there had been several unpleasant interruptions while they discussed battle plans on the porch, and it was starting again this morning. Turning, the king rested his eyes on Thranduil who was quickly making his way toward them with another elf in tow. The other elf appeared to be an archer by profession judging from his stance and the thickness of his gauntlets around the forearm where the string might hit if a bow was fired in haste. His hair was dark like the hair of most Mirkwood elves, and he seemed distressed.

"News has come," Thranduil said tersely. "Lindir has sent back one of my scouts with information, and I would that you should hear it ere you set out this morning." The elven king glanced back at the archer who bowed gracefully to the company ere he began to speak.

"Ithildae I am called, my lords and lieges, and I have much to tell you. We spent many hours searching during the night under Lindir’s command but the trail was strange. The Orcs split into many groups and wandered far and wide, almost without direction, until we followed a trail that led us far to the south. Then it turned almost due east, as though making for the mountains, but the moment we began to follow it, a wave of darkness seemed to sweep the land and our eyes were confounded. It is like nothing I have ever seen before, and I have hunted in Mirkwood’s forests since the Second Age. Almost it reminded me of Dol Guldur, save that the evil did not seem to be as intense or concentrated."

"You describe this darkness as a wave?" Celeborn questioned, his eyes narrowing in thought.

"As wind makes waves upon the waters of the Long Lake, my lord," Ithildae answered. "I watched this darkness ripple and churn, and it spread as spilled ink across a parchment. The trail was lost to us and it encompassed such a wide area that we feared to make a guess as to where the trail might be."

Aragorn frowned, his mind spinning into high gear and quickly searching through thousands of facts garnered from years of study in Elrond’s long library as well as more recently acquired information from Minas Tirith’s horde of scrolls. But despite his excellent memory and vast array of resources, all he drew was a blank. Judging from the expression on Arwen’s face as well as the expressions on the faces of his foster brothers, they also knew not what to make of this strange report. Thranduil and Celeborn, on the other hand, seemed to know far too much and their faces were grave.

"Elladan, do you swear that you know nothing more about the master of these Orcs?"

Startled by the sharpness in Celeborn’s voice, Elladan blinked and nodded. "I have told you all that I know and most of what I suspect. I—"

"We need _everything_ that you suspect, son of Elrond, now!" Thranduil ordered.

Sensing movement next to him, Aragorn glanced down and discovered that Gimli had moved up and seemed about to jump into the conversation. His concern for Legolas was overpowering his caution and he looked less than interested in the present conversation. Dropping a hand to the dwarf’s shoulder, Aragorn put just enough pressure in the grip to inform Gimli that he was not the only anxious one here but that something odd was taking place and it was best to learn all they could. The dwarf stopped his forward progress, but he sent Aragorn a warning glare. He would not suffer this to continue much longer. Legolas and Merry were in the hands of the Orcs, and every minute was precious. For his part, Aragorn was in complete agreement with Gimli, but saying so would not aid them. Instead, he summoned as much patience as he could and turned back to the conversation only to find that it was swiftly devolving into a political debate.

"You presume much, King Thranduil, to address the leader of Imladris so when you are a guest in Rivendell," Elrohir snapped, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Were it not for your inadequacies in compensating for the loss of Vilya, you would have dealt with these Orcs long before now. Mirkwood has survived for millennia without protection such as Vilya or Nenya could provide, and it seems we are now stronger because of it."

"And yet it was your forest that provided a haven for Dol Guldur and the creatures that ventured forth from that fortress," Celeborn returned angrily. "Slight not what you do not understand, Thranduil. The Elven Rings are far beyond your comprehension."

"If I may be permitted to remind you, Lord Celeborn, Dol Guldur was due east of Lothlórien. Were I any judge, and I am, I should say that Dol Guldur was more your responsibility than mine."

"Peace, all of you!" Aragorn stepped forward, separating himself from both Gimli and Arwen in the hopes that any censure he was about to receive would not fall upon either of them. "Do you hear what you say? You speak of Dol Guldur and the Three. Our mission this day is to discover the plans of the Orcs and liberate two captives if it can be contrived. All other talk is foolishness, and it seems to me that the eldest among us, Celeborn and Thranduil, are using it as a diversion in an attempt to avoid discussion of unpleasant things. But the time has passed for secrets and I would know what I face so that I may confront it. Speak, or if you will not speak, cease this idle chatter and allow the rest of us to fulfill the duty we took upon ourselves. I, at least, have not forgotten where our priorities lie."

There was silence at Aragorn’s words and none spoke until Gimli’s gruff baritone broke the tense stillness for them. "Aragorn speaks for me as well. If you have naught to do but argue amongst yourselves, I shall take my leave and look for my companions, one of whom happens to be the son of a king who currently graces our presence this morning. I would have departed long ago, but Elrohir insisted on waiting for everyone. Yet I will wait no longer, and if you cannot settle this dispute, I shall leave you to it."

"What would a child of Aulë know concerning—"

"Silence, Thranduil," Celeborn ordered, his voice heavy. "My apologies, Aragorn and Gimli. You are correct. We do not wish to speak of this, yet it seems it cannot be avoided. But first, I would know the answer to Thranduil’s original question. Elladan, will you tell us _all_ of your suspicions?"

Elladan nodded, ignoring Elrohir’s angry mutterings. "I know not exactly what you wish to hear, but I will relate to you my suspicions based on what I observed." Elladan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, bringing to mind every detail and every guess. "I believe this master to be human," he finally said. "Something in the voice of the Orc that I found impressed this upon me. I have no concrete basis for my belief, but nonetheless, it is a theory I am entertaining with some seriousness. I also believe the master comes from the ruin of Mordor. As you all learned last night, the Orc I confronted was from Mordor and I sensed a reverence and fear born of long service when he spoke of his master. This leads me to believe the master was known to this Orc for quite some time, and as such, Mordor would be the logical point of origin."

"A human from Mordor," Celeborn sighed. "And one who was known in the hierarchy of Sauron’s dominion, else he would not have been able to command the respect and forced loyalty that this Orc was willing to give him. Have you any other ideas to share with us, Elladan?"

"You have heard the others," Elrond’s son answered.

Celeborn nodded and looked over at Thranduil, but the king of Mirkwood had his eyes fixed on the west and was doing an admirable job of ignoring everyone else. With a sigh, the lord of Lothlórien looked to the others and Aragorn felt a shiver run down his back. Celeborn appeared to have aged in the past few minutes and the change was unnerving. Arwen stepped forward, wrapping her hand around Aragorn’s and fixing piercing eyes upon her grandfather. "What have you learned, Lord Celeborn? What do we face?"

"I cannot say with any accuracy, but…" Celeborn hesitated, reluctant to go on.

"Black Númenóreans," Thranduil hissed, his cold eyes darting toward Aragorn. "This darkness is of them. At least one of this lineage has risen from the ashes of Mordor. Your people trouble us yet again, son of Arathorn. I would say that is quite an accomplishment. Very few houses of man have been able to haunt the elves for so long."

"Then let us hope that I shall trouble these Black Númenóreans as much as they seem to trouble you, King Thranduil," Aragorn replied, allowing a hard smile to creep over his face that was but a thin veil over a dangerous threat. "And now that we know our enemy, let us seek him out. We have lingered here far too long."

"You speak wisely, my _brother_ ," Elladan said, directing a pointed look at Thranduil as he uttered that last word. "Come. We shall mount and follow Ithildae. He shall lead us to this darkness and from there we shall seek our lost comrades. Forward, my friends. Let us be off!"

 

 

*This dialogue was lifted directly from TTT, p 255 of Ballantine’s 50th anniversary edition.


	10. The Ties That Separate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

"I don’t understand why it has to be you!"

Samwise Gamgee sighed as he fastened Sting securely about his waist and pulled on a thick leather jerkin. It was meager protection against the blows of Orcs and the swords of evil men, but it was better than nothing. Taking his cloak—the same cloak that had been given to him in Lothlórien—he fastened it about his neck with the silver-laced leaf brooch of the Galadhrim. It was time and he was as ready as he would ever be.

"Sam!"

"I have to, Rosie," Sam whispered, glancing over at his wife with eyes that spoke of deep worry and immense sadness. "Bless me, I can’t sit here and do nothing while others look for Merry."

"But they all left at dawn!" Rosie protested, her face a mixture of anger, frustration, and sorrow. "What can you do that they can’t? You told me yourself that the elves and Strider were the best trackers in the world. Why do you have to go with them? Why can’t you stay here and wait for news?"

"Because Merry wouldn’t stay here and wait," Sam answered, moving toward his wife and gently wiping a tear from her eye. "How can I do any less for him than he would for me? Besides, someone has to keep an eye on Pippin," he added, cracking a weak smile. "You never know what trouble he’ll get into."

As if on cue, a rap sounded on the door to their room and Pippin stuck his head in. "All ready, Sam?" The Took was wearing the armor of a knight of Gondor, and the determination and resolve in his eyes sent chills down Sam’s spine. Pippin had been captured by the Orcs before, and it was made clear by appearance alone that he was not about to let Merry remain in their clutches without making a valiant attempt to free him.

"Half a moment," Sam answered. He turned back to Rosie, his eyes begging for at least understanding if not acceptance. For a long minute, she looked back at him with her heart torn, and then she finally nodded.

"You’ll do what you have to, Sam. You always do," she said, wrapping him in a fierce hug. "Just remember to come back to us. We’ll be waiting for you."

"I’ll always come back to you, Rosie," Sam promised. They stayed locked in an embrace for a moment longer and then Sam reluctantly drew away, wiping a suspicious moisture from his eyes. He glanced around the room and quickly found Elanor, who was playing in a corner with some toys that Elrohir had found leftover from Aragorn’s childhood. Moving toward his daughter, Sam knelt beside her and trailed a gentle, weather-beaten hand down her face.

Elanor looked up at the touch and smiled. "Hi, Daddy." Her small brow furrowed as her eyes took in his cloak. "Where are you going?"

"Daddy has to leave for a little while," Sam answered. "Will you look after mother while I’m gone?"

Elanor nodded, her golden curls bouncing with the movement, and she stood up to wrap small arms around her father’s neck. "Daddy comes back soon," she said firmly before planting a wet kiss on his cheek.

"As soon as I can," Sam whispered, enfolding his daughter in a tender hug and feeling as though his heart would break. "You be good while I’m gone, all right?"

"Very good," Elanor promised.

"That’s my girl," Sam said. He pulled back and smiled at her. "Now mind your mother. If you’re very good, when I come back maybe we can ride one of the big horses."

"With the bush?" Elanor asked hopefully.

"Yes, with Gimli. I’m sure he would like that," Sam laughed, tousling her hair and rising. Elanor giggled and then went back to playing with her toys. Sam sighed and turned back to Rosie. "I’ll be back soon."

"Take care of yourself," Rosie said, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "You’ve been lucky in the past, but that doesn’t mean your luck will always hold."

Sam nodded, hesitated, and then pulled Rosie into another hug. Tangling his hands in her dark hair, he gave her a quick but deep kiss and then stepped away, hastily clearing his throat. "If you need to send word, speak with Elrohir. Like as not, he’ll figure out soon enough where we’ve gone. And if I send word, I’ll send it through his brother. I promise that you’ll hear from me." And with that, knowing he was in danger of never leaving if he tarried even a minute longer, Sam turned his back on his wife and child and hurried out the door.

"You don’t have to come," Pippin said quietly, following Sam as the hobbit all but ran down the hall.

"I can’t sit here and do nothing," Sam said, slowing a bit and allowing Pippin to catch up. "I have to follow my heart. If I’d listened to it up on that pass by Cirith Ungol…" Sam trailed off and shook his head. "I learned then, Pippin. My heart’s smarter than my head. And right now, it’s telling me I have to go."

"Well, I’m glad for the company because the last thing Aragorn said to me before I went to bed last night was to stay in Rivendell, and I don’t know how we’ll explain this to him," Pippin said.

"And what would you be explaining to Aragorn?"

Both hobbits froze and turned reluctantly around to find Elrohir standing casually behind them as though he’d been there all along. _And maybe that’s not too far from the truth_ , Sam thought, remembering several instances in the Fellowship when Legolas would suddenly appear behind them and then mention that he’d actually been there for quite some time.

"Sam?" Pippin prompted, glancing at the other hobbit for an explanation.

"Pippin and I are joining the search," Sam said firmly, getting straight to the point.

Elrohir said nothing for a long moment, studying the hobbits with piercing elven eyes, and then his gaze softened. "Some of us wondered why you were not with us this morning when we set out."

Sam let out a deep breath he’d been holding, and he felt Pippin relax at his side. "Thank you," Sam said, intensely grateful that he would not have to argue his way past one of Elrond’s sons.

Elrohir nodded and smiled. "We have kept some hobbit ponies in Rivendell in the event that your kind should ever visit us again. I see that this policy now turns to our advantage. Come. We shall see to your provisions, and then I will lead you to your mounts."

"We have provisions," Pippin revealed somewhat guiltily. "We raided the kitchens last night."

"Ah, so you were the thieves." Elrohir laughed quietly and shook his head. "Estel suspected it was so, but when you were not with us this morning, we doubted if you had planned that far in advance. Still, you must understand that one does not steal from Rivendell’s larders with impunity." This last was said with a grim look, but Sam caught a twinkle of mischief in the half-elf’s eyes.

"How are we going to be punished, Mr. Elrohir?" he asked.

Elrohir made a show of thinking about that question and then appeared to come to a conclusion of sorts. "You shall not travel alone to join the search parties. You shall take with you a guide. Lord Celeborn shall manage things in my absence and I shall ride with you, for I have need to speak with my brother."

"That sounds like a good punishment," Pippin conceded. Sam nodded in agreement. He had secretly been worried that they would be unable to find the others once they made it past Rivendell’s borders.

"I am glad that you approve," Elrohir laughed with a shake of his head. "Let it never be said that Imladris is unfair in justice. Come, then, since all is in readiness. We shall ride to find our friends." Saying this, Elrohir swept past the hobbits, and Pippin and Sam were quickly forced to keep up with the elf’s long strides as he led them through the twisting corridors of Elrond’s home and out onto the many paths that threaded about the surrounding forest. They were making good progress and Sam had almost figured out just how many steps he needed to take to equal one of Elrohir’s when the half-elf suddenly slammed to a halt and turned, breaking into a jog.

"Sam?"

"Why in the Shire are you looking at me? I don’t know what he’s doing anymore than you do."

"Should we follow him?" Pippin asked.

Sam shrugged. "We need a guide, so I don’t think we have much choice. Unless you want to wander around in the woods with all those Orcs."

"No, I don’t suppose that would be a good idea. In any case, getting caught ourselves wouldn’t help Merry." Pippin sighed and shook his head. "I should have been stronger."

Sam blinked, uncertain as to what had brought on this comment. "Stronger? Stronger when?"

"During the battle. I should have seen it coming. Merry’s pony had always been skittish. If I’d stayed closer to him…" Pippin trailed off and turned away, muttering something beneath his breath.

Sam understood all too well what Pippin was going through. Vivid memories of Cirith Ungol came to his mind, and as he had many times in the past, he wondered what would have happened had he not hidden Galadriel’s phial after breaking through the web. Would Shelob have still come after them? Would he and Frodo have been separated? Would the spider’s poison have been spared his master? But Sam had learned—thanks in part to many conversations with Gandalf and Aragorn—that questioning the past did not change it. It was good to learn from one’s actions and it was good to plan for the future, but censure for past deeds had no place in the present. Unfortunately, Sam didn’t know quite how to impart this knowledge to Pippin, and so he did the next best thing. Laying a hand on the Took’s arm, he squeezed it slightly and then tugged. "Let’s follow Elrohir. We’ll get them back, Pippin. You just have to keep believing."

Pippin sighed and nodded weakly, murmuring a quick thanks before turning away. He gestured for Sam to proceed him, apparently not quite trusting himself to speak, and Sam willingly obliged, hurrying off in the direction Elrohir had gone. His sharp ears caught the sounds of Pippin falling into step behind him and he sighed. He would have to ask Strider if he could talk to the Took. But first things first, and before he could get to Strider, he would need to find Elrohir. Setting his senses to this task, Sam hurried down the twisting paths and looked about carefully for the half-elf.

"Sam! Over there."

Sam stopped and followed Pippin’s pointing finger until his eyes rested on Elrohir. He nodded and started to run, but then he stopped, realizing that Elrohir was not alone. Celeborn stood with him, and before both of them were three elves that Sam instantly recognized from his first night under the trees of Lothlórien.

"Is that Haldir?" Pippin hissed at his side.

"And Rúmil and Orophin," Sam said with a nod. "I wonder what they’re doing here. They don’t look too happy."

"Let’s get closer. Maybe we can hear what they’re saying."

Sam shot Pippin a rather disapproving glare. "The last two times I tried eavesdropping didn’t exactly work out for the best. The first time, I had Gandalf threaten to turn me into a frog and fill the yard with grass snakes, and the second time, Lord Elrond sent me off with Mr. Frodo into Mordor."

"But this isn’t Gandalf or Elrond," Pippin reasoned. "Come on, Sam, let’s get a little closer. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?" And without waiting for a response, Pippin took off, darting behind trees and columns while unerringly making his way toward the gathered elves. With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Sam shrugged and followed, hoping they wouldn’t get into serious trouble for this breach in etiquette.

The hobbits were able to get quite close with a relative measure of safety, for the elves seemed wholly involved in their discussion. And judging from facial expressions, it was a discussion that did not bode well. Unfortunately it was a largely unintelligible discussion for the hobbits because most of it was taking place in Sindarin. And though Frodo had taught Sam a bit of the elvish language before leaving with Gandalf for the Undying Lands, it had been primarily Quenya and Sam’s grasp on it was sketchy at best.

"Now what?" the gardener demanded with an incriminating look at Pippin. "We’re too close to approach them now. They’ll know we were spying."

"We can always back up and come in like we were merely following Elrohir," the Took answered with a shrug. "But let’s stay here for a minute. I want to watch this."

Sam sighed. "We can’t stay for long," he said. "Elrohir will wonder where we’ve gotten to and it won’t be long before he comes looking for us. If he finds us here—"

"Samwise? Peregrin? You may come out now."

The hobbits froze, startled by the sudden summons, and then Pippin shrugged. "Look at the bright side," the Took said with a lopsided grin as Sam gave him his best glare. "At least we’ll find out what’s going on."

Shoving the knight of Gondor before him, Sam made his way out of the foliage and sent a sheepish look at Elrohir. "We were just wondering what—"

"Next time, ask. I would have thought you had learned your lesson long ago," Elrohir answered, though there was no censure in his gaze. He turned back to Celeborn and gestured for the elf to continue.

"As I was saying," the lord of Lothlórien began, speaking in Westron so as to include the hobbits in their conversation, "I have seen this before but it was during the Second Age. I knew not that this ability was kept, though doubtless there are records of it somewhere. When Thranduil’s scout came in, I suspected the cause but feared to make any accusations or judgements. It appears Thranduil’s conclusion was right, though. A Black Númenórean from Mordor is at work, and he has learned from one of the most powerful necromancers known to Arda. His powers have been put to use and we shall be hard-pressed to overcome him."

"Can the darkness over the trail be penetrated?" Elrohir asked.

"Whoever follows the path must clear his mind of all thoughts and simply follow by instinct. It will require keen eyes and an inborn talent for tracking. Second guesses will only cloud the trail, and he who follows must act instantly on whatever impressions he receives. And we must hope those impressions are correct."

"Then it is fortunate we have Estel and Elladan," Elrohir said. "Perhaps they can see in the darkness where we cannot. The perceptions of my twin and the skills of my foster brother may be able to counter this shroud of darkness."

"We must hope so," Celeborn sighed. "But the danger does not stop here. This Númenórean wants something, that much is clear, but I have yet to fathom what. He wishes to make prisoners of the Fellowship, yet I do not understand his purpose. He does not wish us to follow our friends, eliminating the possibility of bait. A demand for ransom or surrender would have been made known to us by now." The lord of Lothlórien shook his head and frowned. "I like this not. His motives are strange to me and until they can become clear, I fear to press the attack."

"Yet we cannot sit here while our friends lie in torment," Elrohir said sharply. "We must act and act quickly!"

"I agree, but what action shall we take?" Celeborn asked. "What awaits us at the end of the Orcs’ trail? What treachery is planned and what shall we face when we again find our friends, if fortune so favors us? Something dark is stirring, son of Elrond, and I fear what may come of this."

"But we cannot wait for answers while our friends are made to suffer. I will not allow it!"

There was silence for a moment as Celeborn and Elrohir glared at one another, but eventually Celeborn looked away and sighed. "You are right, Elrohir. It seems our only option is to follow what clues we have. We will have to find the lair of our enemy, with or without the knowledge we need."

"By your leave, my lords, Rúmil, Orophin, and I can ride to the searchers in the south and tell them of your counsel," Haldir volunteered.

Celeborn was quiet for a moment and then nodded. "Yes, do so. For the trail in the north is too near the trolls for our safety. We shall be better served by following the southern route."

"I shall ride with them," Elrohir said. "Peregrin and Samwise shall accompany us, for I promised to lead them to Estel and the others. Does this seem well to you, Master Hobbits?"

Sam had been attempting to follow the conversation and learn what was meant by the constant references to darkness over the trail, so he was startled by Elrohir’s question. Pippin seemed to have been doing the same, but he recovered from his surprise faster than did Sam. "That will be fine," the Took answered, speaking for both of them. "When do we leave?"

"Immediately," Elrohir said, turning and starting off in the direction of the stables.

"Is this wise?" Celeborn asked ere Elrohir could get very far.

"Do you think any would be able to stop them from following?" Elrohir responded, and Sam bristled at the notion that he and Pippin would be confined to Rivendell. Beside him, Pippin tensed and sent a dark glare over his shoulder at the lord of Lothlórien.

Celeborn laughed quietly, seeing the reaction of both hobbits. "Then I wish you success. Be careful, my friends, for there is much at work here and the enemy’s plans have been laid well in advance."

"Fear not for us, grandfather," Elrohir answered as Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin joined him. "We shall send word of our findings and I shall begin sending some of the scouts back for rest. Mordor could not prevail five years ago, and it shall not do so now. Come," he said, turning to the hobbits. "There are friends to be found."

"Didn’t I tell you this would all work out?" Pippin asked, hurrying after the half-elf.

"I suppose," Sam allowed. "But all the same, I don’t think I needed to know all that about the darkness. Sometimes it’s better to stay ignorant."

* * * *

Merry’s pounding head was only one of several problems the hobbit discovered as he swam toward consciousness. His shoulder felt as though it had been severely dislocated and only recently popped back into place. He was also shivering violently as though from cold, something which immediately puzzled him. He could sense no chill in the air, yet he continued to shake as though struggling to warm himself. As he became more aware of his surroundings, he wondered if there was another, more elusive coldness against which he fought. His mind seemed to be shrouded in darkness, and he found that attempts at analytical thinking were difficult and almost painful. If he stayed quiet and continued to make observations, he was fine. But the moment he began to conceptualize or question, shadows loomed in his thoughts and it felt as though a huge weight descended upon his chest.

At length, the confused hobbit managed to get his eyes open, and he continued in making his observations, attempting to analyze what he saw and struggling to draw breath as he did so. He was in a room of darkness. He thought he could catch the flickering red of torches on the edges of his vision, but their light was faint and did little to aid him. He lay on his back and his arms were stretched out over his head, chained to the wall by tight, iron manacles. That was interesting. Where had anyone found shackles to fit a hobbit? Forcing his chest to rise and fall as he considered this new oddity and marveling at how calmly he was accepting everything, Merry shifted his head to the side and tried to better examine his surroundings.

There were the torches. Resting in iron sconces along a dank, soot-coated wall, they flickered dimly in a darkness that was not quite natural. By their light, Merry discovered that he was in a cell or prison of some kind. Black, metal bars crisscrossed one another and barred him from a narrow hallway beyond his small room, obscuring the torchlight and threatening to throw the hobbit into a despairing emotional spiral. Whoever had put him here did not mean for him to escape.

Merry wondered if he should attempt to sit up. The chain to his manacles was long enough that he might be able to manage it, but he eventually decided against the attempt. He was tired, aching, confused, and he couldn’t breathe properly. Besides that, there was no compelling reason to rise. At the moment, lying down seemed to be just as productive as sitting up.

A slight moan to his side startled the hobbit and he turned his head a little too quickly. Closing his eyes against the ensuing headache, he forced his mind to think of nothing and felt himself relax as breathing became easier. After a while, the pain subsided enough to be bearable and Merry opened his eyes again, looking to the side once more but doing so at a slower pace.

A small gasp managed to escape him when he beheld who lay next to him. Also lying on his back with his arms stretched out over his head and chained to the wall, a battered looking elf groaned again, seeming to struggle toward consciousness.

"Legolas?" Merry whispered, wincing as his voice echoed in the dank prison. He feared his hushed whisper might bring guards down upon them, but much to his relief, nothing happened. Deathly silence settled over all as the echoes of his voice died away. Slightly reassured by this, Merry tried again. "Legolas? Legolas, can you hear me?"

There was no response from Legolas. The elf had his eyes closed, which meant he was either greatly exhausted, in pain, or unconscious. The hobbit decided it was probably a combination of the latter two, though exhaustion might well play into it. He felt quite weary himself, and the inability to draw adequate breath was not helping matters. Yanking slightly against his chains and feeling no give in the cold metal, he looked back over at the elf and grimaced. He did not want to be the only conscious one in this cell.

"Legolas!" he tried again, raising his voice this time despite the warnings in his heart about keeping quiet and still. "Legolas, you have to get up!" Merry stopped and thought about that for a minute. Considering how they were both chained, it was doubtful if either one of them could stand, though if they stretched enough they might be able to sit. "You have to _wake_ up," the hobbit amended, wondering if it really mattered what words he used since the elf didn’t seem to hear him anyway. "Come on, Legolas," he tried again. "Open your eyes! Just for a moment, at least! Tell me what you think of these accommodations. Maybe you can talk to the innkeeper."

At last, Merry received some kind of response. The elf groaned and stirred slightly, the metal of his chains clinking softly on the floor. Holding his breath while hope flared desperately in his frightened mind, the hobbit watched as Legolas groaned again, louder this time, and turned his head restlessly.

"That’s right," Merry encouraged. "All the way, now. Look at me, anyway, if you can’t manage anything else. I know you can do at least that."

Slowly—far too slowly for Merry—Legolas shook his head, shifted his arms, and eventually opened his eyes. For a long time, he did nothing but blink and stare, seeming to absorb his surroundings. Then he glanced toward the hobbit, the firelight making his gray eyes take on odd overtones of red.

"Merry?"

"I’m glad you’re awake, Legolas," Merry whispered with a sigh of relief. "I don’t know how much longer I could have lasted without company. Not a particularly nice room they’ve given us, in my opinion. I think we should see whoever is in charge."

"Perhaps," the elf murmured absently, looking toward his hands and tugging experimentally at his manacles. His sharp eyes flicked over the prison, taking in Merry, the chains, the bars, the torches, and anything the hobbit might have missed. "How long have we been here?"

"I just woke up," Merry answered, still struggling to breathe. "I don’t have any idea as to how long they’ve kept us down here or how long they plan on keeping us here. I just know that I really don’t like this place."

With a grimace, Legolas jerked against his chains again and then seemed to decide that they were not going to move. "Do you know what happened to our companions?" the elf asked after a moment of silence.

Merry sighed and shook his head. "I don’t remember much. Pippin and I came back to help you and Gimli. Sam, Rosie, and Elanor were safely away, and they didn’t need looking after so we though we’d lend a hand with the attack. But my pony had other ideas and somehow I fell off his back. I think I was hit in the head after that, but I don’t really remember." The hobbit sighed again, his frustration evident from his tight jaw and his breath coming in labored gasps. "Legolas, there’s something about this place. Something…something is very wrong."

Legolas frowned and closed his eyes, his expression going blank for a moment. "There is darkness here," he eventually said. "A darkness that seeks to infiltrate my mind. I cannot think without shadows seeking to thwart me."

"I have the same problem," Merry said. "It’s hard to breathe and—"

"Hush!" Legolas suddenly ordered, his eyes flying open and darting toward the bars on the other side of the room. After a moment, Legolas pushed himself backwards, putting slack in the short chain that bound his wrists to the wall. Merry watched him anxiously and copied his movements, wondering what new devilry the elf could sense.

For a long time, nothing happened, and Merry started to relax. But Legolas kept his eyes glued to the other wall, and his expression discouraged any questions from the hobbit. "Orcs," he finally whispered, his face twisting with disgust and hatred. "Orcs approach us."

"Just orcs?" Merry asked, picking up on a strange undertone in the elf’s voice.

"I do not know," Legolas admitted, continuing to listen intently. "But I sense that the orcs hold back as if in the presence of a great commander. Their usual speech is subdued, and I hear tones of respect, strange though that may seem."

"How far away are they?"

"I do not know. I am not familiar with the layout of this place," Legolas said. "But they are close. They are very close."

"What are we going to do?" This was a question that should have asked long ago, but the darkness in Merry’s mind had muddied his thoughts and obvious actions had become obscured. Watching expressions roll across Legolas’s normally passive face, Merry realized with a sinking heart that the elf had not considered the question, either. Apparently the strange darkness was having a similar effect on both of them.

"I do not know," the elf eventually answered.

"That makes two of us," Merry mumbled. How many times now had Legolas just said the words ‘I do not know’? _Far too often for my liking,_ the hobbit thought grimly. _And if he doesn’t know what to do or what’s going on, how am I to figure it out?_ Merry shook his head and then suddenly stiffened as something beyond the cell bars caught his attention. "Do you see that, Legolas?"

The elf nodded slightly, watching as a hint of greater light crept into their room. "Torches. They approach," he whispered, lowering his voice to the point where it was barely audible.

"Are you sure you can’t think up a plan really fast?" Merry hissed back.

"Take no actions of any kind," Legolas cautioned. "Say nothing and do nothing."

That sounded easy enough to Merry and he quickly nodded. "Right. Say nothing and do nothing. Do you think it would help if I pretend to be asleep?"

Legolas shook his head, hissing slightly as this increased his already painful headache. "They know we are awake," he answered. "This shadow over our minds has a source. Whoever or whatever is behind this darkness felt us stir, and deceptions on our part will avail us nothing. But until we know our enemy, we cannot act. For that reason, we must let him make the first move."

"Ah, I see now. The plan is to watch and wait," Merry concluded with a sigh. "I guess I can work with that, but I think we need a better one."

Legolas smiled slightly. "I shall endeavor to prepare a more comprehensive plan when I learn more of our captors," the elf promised. "But until then, do nothing to draw attention to yourself. We may be only pawns in a greater plan, and if this is the case, we might lull them into a false sense of security by appearing meek and submissive."

"I hope you’re right," Merry whispered. "Because I’m hungry and I don’t think they plan on feeding us in the near future."

The elf laughed quietly, though his voice held no real mirth, and then they both fell silent, wary and watchful as the light began to grow brighter. After a short wait, Merry could pick up the harsh voices Legolas had heard earlier, and he was forced to agree with the elf. Having been a captive of the Orcs before, he could attest to the fact that they were always talking and always arguing unless they were threatened with bodily harm. But while these orcs were indeed talking, they were dong so quietly as though they feared to incur wrath. Nor were their tones proud or argumentative. They were hushed and afraid. Merry wondered what could cow an Orc so, and with a sinking heart, he realized he was probably about to find out.

After another few minutes of waiting, the Orcs came into view. Merry tried to count their numbers, but they were moving and jostling one another enough that the hobbit eventually gave up. His best guess numbered around twenty, though, which made the odds ten to one. _Not good_ , he decided. _Even for a knight of Rohan and an elf._

Upon seeing the prisoners, the orcs started to jeer and laugh, but they did not approach, staying near the far wall and occasionally glancing out of the room as though waiting for something. Legolas shifted uncomfortably beside him and Merry felt a flash of fear for the elf. Most of the orcs’ jibes were directed at the prince, and if Legolas were given to them for sport, he would not last long.

Then the orcs went abruptly silent, and a shiver of fear took Merry at the same time that a cold darkness seemed to creep over all. The flames in the wall sconces spluttered and hissed, and almost as though he were a part of the shadows, a hooded figure clad in a swirling cloak entered the room. The feeble light glanced off black armor beneath the cloak, and a long, sheathed sword swung from a baldric. Darkness seemed to follow this creature of evil and the torches dimmed until they were barely visible. He turned toward the elf and hobbit, and a flash of eyes could be seen in the shadows of his hood. Merry had the impression of cruelty, malice, and an evil cunning. More shivers crept along his spine and he cast his eyes away, unable to meet the dark gaze that seemed to seer his flesh. The hobbit looked instead toward Legolas, hoping to find some sense of peace, but he froze at what he saw on the elf’s face. Legolas was staring back at their captor with a look of both horror and recognition. The elf’s lips moved in a silent plea to Elbereth, and as he did so, a terrible laugh filled the room.

"Release them."

The cold voice froze the marrow in Merry’s bones, but he quickly had other things to worry about. At the commands of the cloaked figure, the orcs opened the cell door and streamed in, swarming around him. He was released from his chains, jerked to his feet, and his arms were seized and twisted cruelly behind his back. The hobbit choked down a cry when his recently set shoulder throbbed in protest to this treatment. He was shoved forward onto his knees and held by at least three different orcs. A thud and a soft gasp beside him caused him to look over and he cringed at what he saw. Legolas had five orcs holding him, and their gripping hands were forcing his arms painfully high behind his back. A sixth Orc seized the elf’s hair and pulled his head back until it almost touched his spine. A sharp blade rested against Legolas’s delicate throat and bit slightly into the skin, making a thin, red line.

"Move even a little, swine, and I’ll gut you like the elven pig you are," the Orc with the knife hissed.

"Bring them forward," the hooded form ordered.

Merry was dragged unceremoniously to his feet, but if he thought his treatment was harsh, he revised that opinion when he saw what was happening to Legolas. The elf was pulled upward at the same time an Orc with a metal gauntlet slammed his fist into Legolas’s side. There was an audible cracking sound as ribs broke beneath the blow, and the elf’s breath caught as he tried to hold back a wail of agony. His knees buckled beneath him, and for punishment the same Orc delivered a hard blow to the prince’s stomach. This time, Legolas could not forebear crying out as he doubled over, and the orcs laughed, hauling him bodily forward while he moaned in pain.

"Take them to their separate rooms," the figure instructed. "Remember, though, that no permanent damage can be afflicted, and they must have regained consciousness by the time I arrive."

Merry’s heart leaped into his throat, and he looked wildly at Legolas, hoping the elf had received some miraculous, last minute inspiration. But Legolas only looked back at him with pain-filled eyes and labored breathing, and then they were dragged away from one another. Merry’s orcs practically lifted him into the air as they turned him from the elf. Behind him he could hear the muffled sounds of a struggle and eventually he caught the sound of an elven cry. Then something rammed into Merry’s back and he stifled a yelp of surprise and pain only to release a much louder scream when one of the orcs holding his right arm twisted hard and broke it with a loud snap. Fighting against this pain, Merry screamed again when the process was repeated with his left arm. Darkness swam before him as his body began to go into shock, and the hobbit gratefully surrendered himself to blissful unconsciousness where this horror could at least be partially ignored if not wholly endured.


	11. Veils of Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, my huge thanks for the supportive reviews, the critical suggestions, and the alert eyes out there. You guys are wonderful, and I just had to thank you before doing anything else. And now with that out of the way, on with the chapter!

__

Author’s Notes: Once again, my huge thanks for the supportive reviews, the critical suggestions, and the alert eyes out there. You guys are wonderful, and I just had to thank you before doing anything else. And now with that out of the way, on with the chapter!

****

 

Chapter 11: Veils of Darkness

It was the considered opinion of many mortals that elves create their environment and that their reality is determined by their mindset. An elf in good spirits seemed to have the ability to make the sunlight brighter, the sky bluer, and the forest greener. For his part, Thranduil found the notion rather amusing while at the same time indicative of the general ignorance that seemed to pervade the race of mortals. The things of the world were masters unto themselves. Possibly they responded to the emotions of elves in some small way, but they were certainly not bound to the Eldar race, as many believed. Elves, on the other hand, were very much influenced by their environment, and perhaps the saying could simply be turned around and so made factual. A dark cave had the power to wilt even the most powerful elven warrior while a serene forest was a blessing and a balm to the spirit of the grief-stricken. During his many years upon Arda, Thranduil had become very aware of his own surroundings and their affect on his mood, but never had he felt the influence of his environment as strongly as he did now.

Before him, writhing in coils of eternal shadow, the forest floor was almost a mirror to the darkness swirling within his own heart. His youngest son, the last child of his beloved wife, was gone. Taken by Orcs. And his final words to this son had been spoken in reckless anger. Glancing around to ensure that he was not observed, Thranduil sighed and his perfect posture was broken as his broad shoulders slumped and he bowed his head in grief and torment. A hand rubbed his brow and he closed bright elven eyes, murmuring a quiet prayer to Elbereth on behalf of his realm’s youngest prince. _What have I done, Legolas? What have I done in driving you from Rivendell?_

"Sire?"

"How goes the search, Ithildae?" the king asked, quickly reassuming his commanding presence and sending a warning look at the archer in the event that the other elf might venture inappropriate questions.

"Elladan has discovered something, my liege," Ithildae replied, wisely showing no sign that he had caught the king in a moment of private sorrow. "I thought you would wish to be informed."

Thranduil nodded and waved his hand in dismissal even as he turned and searched the gathered elves, looking for Elrond’s son. Elladan had become rather distant since this search began. It seemed as though something greatly troubled him. There was a feeling of guilt and recrimination about the half-elf, and it was possible that he blamed himself for not acting against the shadow earlier, a failure that Thranduil was quite willing to grant him. But there was more to it than simply self-condemnation. It was as though this darkness affected Elladan more than it affected the rest of them, and perhaps that wasn’t far from the truth. Thranduil had noticed over the years that Elladan seemed particularly susceptible to changes in his environment, more so than even full-blooded elves. And with the feeling of evil so close and so pervasive, he might be having trouble focusing his senses and consequently withdrawing from those around him. _And for this reason alone will I fail to mention that I hold him accountable with Isildur’s heir for the loss of my son_ , Thranduil thought grimly, knowing that darkness in one’s heart was far worse a punishment for Elladan than anything that the elven king of Mirkwood could concoct.

Eventually spotting Elladan at the far edge of the group—and noting with some despair that the king of Gondor stood with the son of Elrond—Thranduil steeled himself and moved toward them. Anger still throbbed within his veins at the thought that Aragorn had sent Legolas into danger virtually unprotected. He trusted his son’s abilities for he had seen those abilities in action, but one elf could never hope to stand against an entire battalion of Orcs no matter how skilled that elf was. Even Glorfindel might balk at such odds. And as for the defense that Gimli had been with Legolas… Thranduil shook his head in disgust. Dwarves were mighty in battle, that was true, but they were wholly untrustworthy. They could not be relied upon to watch another’s back, for their minds were flighty and their attention short-lived. Thranduil held both the dwarves and the Orcs fully responsible for the death of his wife, and never again would he trust any children of Aulë. And after Isildur’s treachery in the face of what his own father had sacrificed, it was a foregone conclusion that men were also untrustworthy. _Why, then, does Elladan place so much faith in Aragorn_? Thranduil wondered as he neared the two. _It seems that Elrond’s wisdom failed these last years, and it fails even more in his sons._

"Ithildae reports you have discovered something, Elladan," Thranduil said upon reaching his destination.

"News travels quickly," Elladan replied, barely sparing the king a glance. His eyes were intent upon Aragorn, whose gaze was strangely blank and who looked as though he was about to topple over.

"News does not travel quickly enough, young one, for word of what your discovery is has yet to reach my ears," Thranduil said, his voice filled with reproach. If there was one thing Thranduil could not stand, it was secrets that were kept from him. He had an insatiable need to know everything that went on, a need that had been born of seemingly endless years fighting Orcs, Wargs, spiders, and countless other denizens of darkness in Mirkwood. Without the aid of an Elven Ring to protect his kingdom, Thranduil had been forced to demand much of his people, and among those demands was the right to know anything and everything that happened within the realm. To his credit, Thranduil was alone in his ability to preserve an elven land against Sauron without a Ring of Power, but the cost of such preservation had taken its toll. His temper was short, his prejudices were set, and he had very little tolerance for those who stood in his way. And Elladan was coming very close to incurring Thranduil’s full wrath.

Seeming to sense something of the emotional turmoil within Mirkwood’s king, Elladan turned and studied the other elf. "I am not yet certain of this potential discovery, and I saw no purpose in bringing it to your attention until there was something definite to relate."

"I believe we have had this conversation before," Thranduil said quietly, his eyes narrowing. "What is it you suspect?"

"As of yet, I do not know enough to suspect anything," Elladan answered. "And as for discovering something, that remains to be seen. In any case, it is more Estel’s discovery than mine."

Thranduil’s eyes shifted to the man and deep prejudices immediately flared to life. But even as his mind began to close itself against the possibility that Aragorn might have anything constructive to contribute, a tiny voice in the back of Thranduil’s head spoke up in warning. His son’s life hung in the balance, and he could not afford to overlook any chance to bring him home. It was far-fetched, but maybe…just maybe…this mortal could be of use to them. Legolas was a young elf and sometimes acted more with his heart than his head, but Thranduil trusted his judgement for the most part and if Legolas had made a friend of this human, that did say something. Of course, Legolas had also made a friend of a dwarf, something Thranduil could not understand no matter how he twisted his mind around that particular puzzle, so perhaps the young prince was still in need of instruction and advice in this area. Still, even Thranduil would admit, albeit reluctantly, that the men of Isildur’s line did have heightened senses and abilities. Perhaps he could allow himself to trust this human somewhat. But he would bear careful watching, all the same.

While these thoughts rolled through Thranduil’s mind, Elladan stood silently by, watching and waiting with the eternal patience granted almost exclusively to the Eldar. And when the king of Mirkwood finally focused on the son of Elrond again, Elladan gave him the barest hint of a smile and nodded toward Aragorn. Taking a deep breath and ignoring the indignant outcries of his pride, Thranduil turned and addressed the man. "King Elessar?"

For a moment, it seemed that Aragorn would not answer, but after a time, he closed his eyes and shuddered. He swayed slightly and Elladan was quick to support him, leading him to a tree and pressing him against it. Confused and more than a little concerned that something was going awry without his knowledge of what that something was, Thranduil followed.

"Aragorn?" he tried again, feeling rather sick at the thought that he was placing his trust in a mortal.

Aragorn sighed and opened his eyes, raising a hand to his head and rubbing his brow. "Thranduil?"

It could not be said that Thranduil knew very much about humans, but he was not completely ignorant. His kingdom was a primary trading partner for the men of Dale, and beyond than that, he had fought beside men under the standards of Oropher in the failed attempt to destroy Sauron’s evil at the end of the Second Age. He had seen men wearied and injured, and he had learned to recognize some of the signs that accompanied the peculiar mortal phenomenon of sickness. He now identified a few of these signs in Aragorn and wondered at it. "You do not appear well, son of Arathorn," he eventually said, thinking that perhaps he should have learned more of men in the past.

Aragorn gave a short bark of laughter and shook his head. "Let it never be said that elves are unobservant."

Thranduil bristled slightly but managed to restrain his growing temper. It was a difficult task, for Thranduil had never been a particularly patient elf when Orcs were concerned, and the fact that his youngest son was held captive by these foul creatures only exacerbated the problem. But with an iron will and a great deal of effort, the king of Mirkwood shoved his feelings to the back of his head and tried to assume a logical interior to match his outer façade of calm and dignity. "May I assume, then, that you are ill?" he ventured, impressing even himself with the steadiness of his voice.

"Weary would hit nigh unto the mark," Aragorn answered, pushing off his tree and waving away Elladan’s silent offer of assistance. "I think I may have discovered a way to see through this darkness."

"You can follow the Orcs?" Elladan asked.

"Perhaps." Aragorn sounded rather hesitant, and Thranduil was forced to curb his impatience once more. "If I clear my thoughts and try to sense rather than see the trail, I feel as though one is there. Yet whether or not I can follow it, and whether or not this trail is even the correct trail, are things that I do not know. It could be a diversion set to turn us from the true path." Aragorn grimaced and glanced into the darkness. "Would you attempt to sense the trail, Elladan?" he asked at length. "For your senses are keener than mine, and I would know an elf’s opinion on this."

Elladan frowned but nodded. "As you wish, brother. I know not for what I search, yet if you think it shall help…" The half-elf trailed off and looked out over the swirling darkness that clouded the forest floor. Sensing this might take a while and needing something to pass the time, Thranduil amused himself by counting the leaves in the tree overhead while his fists clenched and unclenched at his side. As the minutes ticked by, it was becoming more and more difficult to restrain himself and his rage. At this point, he had more in common with Gimli than he did with Elladan, Elrohir, or even Celeborn. Thranduil would never admit to such a thing, of course, but this line of thought led him to stop counting leaves and instead glance about for the dwarf. To his surprise, the stunted creature was nowhere in sight, and elven curiosity began to surge with him.

"Where is the dwarf?" he eventually asked.

Aragorn sighed and shook his head. "I know not. Shortly after we dismounted, he disappeared. As to where Gimli is now, I cannot say. I have not dispatched any to search for him as we cannot waste the manpower, and he is more than capable of taking care of himself. Still, I cannot help but wonder what he is doing or where he is."

"One can never trust a dwarf," Thranduil said flatly, glancing about again but still not finding any sign of Gimli. "The friendship of a dwarf means nothing, for they are often wont to break what promises they make and destroy what vows they speak. You would do well to send him away from us, son of Arathorn."

"King Thranduil, I have journeyed with Gimli over many leagues and many days. He is a courageous and stalwart companion, and were I given the option of taking one thousand of your archers into battle behind me, I would decline in favor of having Gimli and Legolas at my side."

"You are young and you are a man," Thranduil said, turning away from Aragorn as a means of dismissal. He did not need to be lectured by a youth who would be dead ere the next acorn fully matured. He was Thranduil, son of Oropher and king of Mirkwood. He was quite capable of taking his own counsel, and no mortal would tell him what could and could not be done. After the Battle of Dagorlad, and later the loss of his wife, no mortal could ever be truly trusted anyway.

"When last I left you, you were standing about doing naught. I see now no change for the better."

__

Speaking of mortals… Thranduil was forced to summon some of his last patience in order to turn and watch as a dwarf stomped out of the trees, a crude axe slung over one shoulder. Gimli looked about him with a mixture of frustration and rage, eventually grunting and shaking his head.

"You disapprove, Master Dwarf?" Aragorn asked.

"Our friends are in the hands of the Orcs, yet you do nothing to save them," Gimli snapped, anger beginning to redden his face.

"Peace, Gimli," Aragorn said just as Thranduil was preparing something truly scathing to say. "If I may ask, what have you been doing while we have been searching for a trail?"

"I have done some searching of my own out in that darkness."

"You traveled in that?!" Aragorn demanded, gesturing to the waves of black mist that hid the ground.

"You believe Legolas and Merry to be somewhere beyond it, do you not? Therefore, it seemed only logical that I should follow."

Thranduil blinked and took a closer look at the dwarf. None of the elves had ventured to set foot in the swirling shadows, for the feel of evil was palpable. Yet this dwarf claimed to have traveled through them. The king of Mirkwood narrowed his eyes and studied Gimli carefully. Perhaps there was something different about this creature. _Or perhaps he is as other dwarves and lies to us about his travels._

"Gimli, we do not know enough about what we face to take chances like that," Aragorn said, and even Thranduil was impressed by the amount of anger the king managed to put into his statement.

"Then when shall we be allowed to take chances?" Gimli shot back. "Perhaps it was a risk to brave the shadows, but has not Legolas taken similar risks for me?"

Aragorn shook his head, but it seemed to Thranduil that the king’s attitude was slowly turning to one of weary acceptance rather than one of anger and condemnation. _You shall never rule effectively if that is your policy_ , he thought to himself. _Subjects and underlings must be controlled. One cannot allow oneself to fall prey to weakness and compliance. Such thinking led to the corruption of Al-Pharazôn and the downfall of Númenor._

But it did not appear that Aragorn had learned this lesson—a fact not greatly surprising to Thranduil—and the man eventually sighed as his anger at Gimli drained from his face. "Tell me of your journey in the darkness, then," Aragorn said. "I trust you discovered something of note, else you would not have returned."

"True enough," Gimli said. "First of all, this darkness…" The dwarf trailed off and shook his head before continuing. "The darkness is a grasping thing. While walking through it, I felt faint and confused. As though my mind was not truly my own. There is evil there, and it is powerful."

"We can feel that much from here," Aragorn said, his anger briefly resurfacing. "You did not need to walk about in it to tell us of this."

Something flashed through the dwarf’s eyes, but his patience held and he kept his tongue in check with an effort that impressed Thranduil. "There is more in the darkness than simply evil, Aragorn," Gimli said, his voice soft yet tempered with steel. "The trail to our friends lies hidden in it. But I may have found a different trail that we might use, since it seems that the earth and its signs have betrayed us. Where the trees press close together, there are broken branches that indicate the passing of a large company."

"Broken branches," Aragorn echoed with a shake of his head. "Gimli, do you truly think I have not considered this option? Yes, there are places where the trees are close together and branches may be broken, but such places are not frequent enough to provide a reliable trail. Beyond that, a strong wind or a racing stag might be responsible for the snapping of limbs. It does not necessarily indicate a party of Orcs."

"And have there been many strong winds or large, armed parties of stags racing through these woods?" Gimli demanded.

Aragorn’s eyes became hard, and when he answered Gimli, his voice was cold. "There are strange happenings this day, Master Dwarf, and nothing in these woods is as it seems. I would feel better following a clear trail on the ground rather than guessing haphazardly at broken sticks. If our choices go awry and we lose the trail, such delays could be more dangerous for Legolas and Merry than the current delay. Your haste may cost them what little hope they have. Think on that ere you press us for a change in plans."

There was silence for a moment, and it seemed as though all of Arda waited. The waiting ended after a time when Gimli’s shoulders slumped and he looked away with a sigh. "My apologies, Aragorn. I spoke from my anger, not from my wits."

"And that is to your credit, for we will have need of such passion and fury," Aragorn responded. "Only hold it in check a while a longer. It will be more than welcome when the time comes."

Thranduil rolled his eyes at these words. Dwarven fury was destructive, true enough, but it was often misguided and uncontrolled. An enraged Gimli would probably run full into a tree and knock himself cold ere he struck his first Orc. When emotions clouded their judgement, dwarves were little better than stunted beasts.

"You are right," Elladan suddenly spoke up, reminding them all of his presence. Blinking his eyes as though waking from a deep sleep, he stepped backward with a shake of his head and staggered slightly. "There is a trail, and we may follow it if our minds our clear, but the moment our thoughts stray, the way is clouded."

"What is this of a trail?" Gimli demanded, eyeing both Elladan and Aragorn with suddenly renewed suspicion.

"There may be a trail hidden beneath the darkness for eyes to see that can," Aragorn answered. "But I know not if it is the true path of the Orcs or a detour sent to lead us astray. What say you, Elladan?"

"I do not know it either," Elladan sighed with a shake of his head. "Only one thing is certain—we must proceed with caution. Númenórean blood is slow to thin, and we know not what surprises our adversary may have already planned."

"Then let us take those surprises in stride," Thranduil said, feeling his patience come to an end. He had been wary of venturing into the dark cloud, but if a dwarf could do it, so could an elf. An opportunity had presented itself, its discovery had been backed by an elven voice, and Thranduil was ready to set out. "You claim that you can follow a trail hidden in this blackness. Let us follow it, then, and see whither we are led."

"Patience," Elladan soothed, his voice low and calming. "We know not if this is a trap. This might very well be another deception intending to lead us away from the true trail. We cannot afford to make a mistake of that magnitude, for such mistakes could be costly."

"Elladan is right," Aragorn said quietly, looking out over the swirling darkness. "There is too much at stake to rush into this. We must proceed carefully. The situation is urgent, but at this point, the need for accuracy outweighs the need for haste."

"What would any of you know concerning the need for urgency and haste?" Thranduil spat, elven eyes flaring with anger. "None of you here understand what I face. I remind you that my youngest son is in the hands of the Orcs, and I—"

"Yes, your son, my friend, a member of the Fellowship of the Ring, the lord of Southern Ithilien, and the youngest prince of Mirkwood," Gimli interrupted, his voice rising to match the king’s. "Legolas bears many titles, and all of us here can lay claim to him through either friendship or kinship. I assure you that this grief is not yours alone, king of Mirkwood, and others here suffer as well. Perhaps it is different for you as a family member, but know that we all bear a measure of sorrow at his absence."

"And what would a dwarf know of elven sorrow?"

"More than you, King Thranduil," Gimli shot back. "While you hide in your forests among the Silvan and Sindarin, I speak with the Noldor and taste of the beauty of Lothlórien, bittersweet in its fading. I have seen the sea longing awakened in your son, and I have now battled this curse with him for five years. Can you say the same? Can you eve say that you and he parted on favorable terms? It occurs to me that your last words to your son were spoken in anger."

"If you say another word, dwarf, I shall personally rip your heart from your chest!"

"Enough!" Elladan cried, jumping between the two. "Silence, both of you. Your arguments do not aid us, and if anything, they only serve to make the darkness stronger. If you cannot speak civilly, then do not speak at all!"

Thranduil rounded on Elrond’s son, fully intending to completely unleash his building fury, but the sudden sound of hooves interrupted him. With narrowed eyes, the king of Mirkwood took a step backward and conceded the round, conscious of the growing number of looks from surrounding elves and men.

"Elladan! Estel!"

Elladan’s brow furrowed and he stepped away from Thranduil to turn and look for the coming riders. The foliage was thick enough that sight was difficult even for elves, but the voice that had cried out was unmistakable, and Thranduil wondered what had happened in Rivendell for its guardian to desert his post, even if Celeborn was still there.

"Elrohir?" Aragorn called out, his voice curious.

"Elrohir, what brings you here?" Elladan asked, moving to catch Gaearsul’s head as the stallion thundered through the underbrush and came to a rather abrupt stop.

"New tidings from the north and counsel from Lord Celeborn," his twin answered, dismounting and moving aside quickly as three other horses pushed their way through the dense underbrush. Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin leaped off their mounts and were then joined by two hobbit ponies and two exhausted-looking hobbits.

"Sam, you have a family to think of!" Gimli reprimanded. "Why aren’t you back at Rivendell with them?"

"Because I would never forgive myself if I didn’t help look for Merry and Legolas," the hobbit answered staunchly, drawing himself up and meeting the dwarf’s stern gaze.

"And we’re not going back, no matter what you do," Pippin added, joining Sam in glaring at Gimli. "There’s no use trying to protect us, anyway, because we’ve both been through enough to know what we’re facing out here. And we want to face it."

"What was the last thing I told you ere you left for sleep last night?" Aragorn asked, his voice stern.

Thranduil watched these proceedings with an air of impatience—something that now seemed to be a constant for him—and eventually turned expectantly to Elrohir. The king had no qualms about hobbits in general and actually respected Bilbo and Frodo after his own fashion, but worry and fear for his son was combining with his general dislike for mortals and giving him an edge that did not allow for the distractions in which mortals seemed to engage. "What tidings do you bring?" Thranduil asked Elrohir, trying to ignore the debate now developing between the hobbits, the dwarf, and the man.

"Firstly, Haldir, Rúmil, and Orophin have somewhat to report from their scouting in the north," Elrohir said, nodding toward the three Galadhrim. Haldir made a short bow and began speaking.

"We had followed many trails left by Rivendell’s attackers, my lords and lieges," he began, including Aragorn in the formalities even though Aragorn was still arguing with the hobbits. "And we were nigh unto losing hope, for it seemed that the Orcs wandered without purpose. Or if there was purpose, it was to burden us with an impossible puzzle. But even as we considered returning to Imladris, Orophin discovered a path that led into darkness. It is much like the path you face here. In fact, to my eyes the two are identical. But returning to my tale, we knew not how to combat this darkness and so sought out Lord Celeborn and Lord Elrohir for counsel."

"And Celeborn was able to identify this darkness based on the details brought to him by Haldir and his brothers," Elrohir said. "He confirms that it is the work of a Black Númenórean—or at least one who has studied their arts—and we now know the purpose of such a shadow. According to Lord Celeborn, this veil of darkness was used in the Second Age to disguise trails and confound those who would track them."

"Know you anything of this?" Elladan asked, looking toward Thranduil curiously.

"Celeborn was more involved in the affairs of man than was I. I know much of the Black Númenóreans, but I do not know specifics," Thranduil answered, quickly searching his memory but drawing a rather embarrassing blank.

"Fortunately for us, Lord Celeborn does know specifics," Elrohir said, and Thranduil bristled slightly at the imperious tone in the young half-elf’s voice. "According to him, the true trail lies beneath the darkness but must be sensed more than seen."

"Then our path could be the correct one," Aragorn said, having finished scolding the hobbits and apparently also having tracked the conversation of the elves even though his concentration was elsewhere.

"At last, wisdom from higher authorities," Gimli exclaimed, joining the others in their discussion. Pippin and Sam now stood quietly behind the dwarf, watching the conversation with rapt attention. "Let us follow the trail."

"It may still be a trap," Elladan cautioned.

"Do we truly have any other options?" Gimli demanded, and for once, Thranduil found himself in complete agreement with the dwarf. It was a rather disconcerting experience and the king quickly evaluated his mental state, looking for signs of insanity. "Celeborn’s counsel indicates that our path could be the path of the Orcs!"

"What is this of a path?" Elrohir asked. "Have you found something already?"

"We seem to be one step ahead of you, brother," Aragorn said. "Elladan and I have discovered a trail, but we feared it was a decoy. And while that may still be the case, at least we have some assurances from Celeborn that perhaps we would not be remiss for following this trail, as Gimli has now pointed out."

"Then if we are to follow it, let us follow it!" Gimli exclaimed, and for the second time that day, Thranduil wondered if he were not going mad.

"The dwarf speaks wisely, strange as that may seem," Haldir said with a sidelong glance at Gimli, and Thranduil sighed in relief with the realization that he was not alone in agreeing with the stunted creature. "Time is our enemy, as it has always been, my lords and lieges, and if we are to pursue those who have taken our comrades, we must act now."

"Then come," Elladan said, turning to the darkness and shivering slightly. "Let us pursue this trail and see where it may lead us. And Valar willing, it shall lead us to our friends."

* * * *

The scream of a whip mixed with the jeers and taunts of Orcs to provide a horrific cacophony of sound. He could feel warm blood running down his back, and his head had dropped forward to rest limply against his bare chest. Laughter and cruel jests surrounded him, but he ignored them as he ignored all else. He was a prince, the last son of Thranduil, and his tormentors were beneath him. Their cruelties were but the pounding of rain upon an immovable stone. They could not hurt him. They could not touch him.

At least, that’s what Legolas kept telling himself. He wondered how much longer he would actually manage to believe that lie.

There was one spot of joy, though. He had yet to express his discomfort verbally, though facial expressions indicative of pain were no longer something he could hide. Still, so long as he could keep back the cries in his throat that begged for release, his tattered dignity and pride were still somewhat intact. It was a small consolation of sorts, and in a remote corner of his mind, Legolas laughed at his enemies for their failure to break him.

But at the same time that part of him was laughing, the more rational portion of his mind was evaluating the situation and coming to rather grim conclusions. The Orcs had been commanded to refrain from permanent damage, and so far they had obeyed those orders. Painful as his current condition was, Legolas’s elven healing ability was already stemming the flow of blood. Even the humiliation of being their captive was something that could fade with time. But why was permanent damage forbidden? What greater purpose lay beneath all of this? Why did he and Merry need to retain the ability to recover? Such policy was certainly not in keeping with general Orc practice, and it was obvious from their taunts and threats that the twisted goblins wished to do far more to the elf than was currently allowed. Yet they restrained themselves, and Legolas wondered at this. Even fear of a vindictive master could give way to an Orc’s desire for sport, but these hideous creatures seemed to know that something more awaited the prisoners. But what? What greater evil was planned and how could it be thwarted? More than that, what was planned for their friends? The attack that had led to Legolas’s imprisonment had been well coordinated, and it was obvious now that these Orcs sought revenge for the fall of Mordor and Isengard. The cloaked man who led these creatures would be after the others. They had to be warned.

And as for the man himself…a man who was not quite a man, it seemed… Legolas wondered if he was perhaps mistaken. His first glance beneath the dark hood had revealed a specter from the past that should have perished with Sauron’s fall. It should have been impossible for this particular man to survive Mordor’s collapse. How was it that he—

Legolas’s thoughts were interrupted when he heard two Orcs step forward, and he belatedly realized that the whipping had ceased. With a mental sigh, the elf turned his mind more or less back to the present and tried to steel himself for whatever they planned next. Doubtless they would attempt to make up for the fact that they’d gotten no real outcry from him yet. Sometimes it did not pay to maintain dignity, and Legolas decided that this was one of those times.

His hands were released from the manacles that dangled from the ceiling. Dropping like a dead thing, the elf landed heavily on his side and with effort bit back a hiss of pain as jagged shards of broken ribs rubbed against delicate lung tissue. Legolas lay quietly, lacking both the energy and the will to move. If he was to be repositioned for some new game, the Orcs would be more than happy to reposition him themselves. A few moments later, he sensed the approach of one of the larger Orcs and felt himself rolled onto his back. Clenching his teeth as the raw skin of his bare back came into contact with the rough, gritty floor of the cell, he opened his eyes and watched the Orc quietly, trying to guess what was to come.

The elf’s right arm was lifted into the air and the Orc kneeling beside him studied it with an almost academic detachment. "So this is what draws the bow that kills our kind," he murmured, his foul voice grating on the elf’s fine hearing. The Orc ran his hands over the pale skin in a cruel parody of a caress, and Legolas forced himself to repress a shudder of revulsion. Then the Orc tightened his grip on the limp arm, clutching both the elf’s hand and his forearm. Looking Legolas straight in the eye and wearing a horrible grin, he slowly began to twist.

It took a long, painful minute for the bones to finally crack beneath the mounting pressure, and during this time Legolas hardened his gaze to stone while furiously beseeching the Valar for strength that he might be able to keep back the moans and screams that were once again building in his throat. He forced himself to lie still, knowing that fighting would only bring greater torment, but when the wrist finally snapped, the pain was too great. His breaking wrist coupled with previous tortures was more than Legolas could take. A cry of exquisite agony burst from him, echoing off the dank walls as it was joined by the triumphant yells of the Orcs.

Struggling to control himself, Legolas dimly sensed his most recent tormenter move to his other side and pick up his left arm. The breaking process was repeated amidst pitiful whimpers of pain from the elf, and when it was over, he could not move his hands.

"How many arrows will you shoot now?" a harsh voice slurred in his ear, and then the Orc stepped away as others approached, pushing a brazier of burning coals and bearing a length of iron, the end of which glowed red with heat. The horror in Legolas’s eyes could not be hidden as a wave of burning heat swept over him, and like prey before a merciless predator, he watched helpless as the end of the iron rod was brought closer and closer.

It was not long before elven screams echoed through the cavernous hallways again.

* * * *

The sensation of cold stone against his back woke Merry from a world of disturbing and horrific dreams. As he became more aware of his surroundings, he wondered if waking up was actually an improvement. When the hobbit became more cognizant, his ultimate conclusion was a very firm and resounding _No_! His broken arms were stretched above his head and chained tightly, and he was secured face-up upon a rough bench hewn from the rock wall. His feet were also chained and the hobbit lay naked and vulnerable, just as he had when the Orcs had tormented him. A shiver of cold crept over him and at this shiver, his abused skin and muscles cried out in protest. Choking back a cry of pain, Merry slowly opened his eyes and wondered what new activity the Orcs had planned.

He was rather surprised to discover that he was alone in his dark cell. A single torch was the only source of light, and it flickered fitfully, attempting to burn despite the damp drafts that blew in and out of the open door at one end of the room. Merry harbored no false hopes that he would be left to himself for long, but at least for now, he could enjoy a brief respite.

Closing his eyes, he tried to relax, though it was hard because his body was growing cold and his bruised, swollen muscles were beginning to tighten. Two ribs were broken, and when he was suddenly taken by an involuntary shiver, he could feel their shards tearing against his lungs. Blood tickled the back of his throat, and Merry stubbornly fought down a cough, knowing that the motion of such an action would only make matters worse in addition to possibly drawing unwanted outside attention. For this latter reason, Merry also stifled the moans and whimpers that were collecting within him. Legolas had said he must not draw attention to himself. It seemed a little late for that, but at the moment, the hobbit had nothing else to go on and he stubbornly clung to the elf’s last words of advice much as a drowning man might cling to the wreckage of his ruined ship. Merry’s muddled mind could construct no coherent plan of its own, and the strange shadows and darkness that seemed to hover just below his consciousness were certainly not helping.

For a moment or two, Merry wondered what had happened to Legolas but ultimately decided that he was better off not thinking about it. He couldn’t remember his own trials without cringing at the dark images that cropped up in his mind, and he didn’t want to extend that darkness by imagining what had become of the elf. Instead, he cleared his mind and did something for which all hobbits have a strong, innate talent. He thought of nothing.

Time seemed to slow and lose its meaning, the surrounding world faded to a dim picture with no relation to reality, and Merry’s mind became a blank. Nothing mattered and nothing could affect him as he achieved a mental state that would rival even the meditative silence of the elves. Hobbits most often used this trick when eating so as to consume more food without acknowledging the consequences of an impending stomachache, but Merry now used it to forget himself. He used it to forget everything and for a brief moment, he existed purely in the present with no past and no future to hinder him. Other races, had they known of this talent, might have envied hobbits greatly, for it was in part due to this ability that hobbits could endure so much and still continue. It was this ability to ignore both future and past that had enabled Frodo and Sam to journey through the desolation of Mordor. It was this ability that had given Bilbo the strength to finally discard the Ring of his own free will. And it was this ability that now allowed Merry to rest despite the screaming of his body.

Unfortunately, the rest was short-lived. Footsteps sounded in the black corridor beyond his room, drawing Merry from his peaceful world of nothing, and the hobbit shivered again in spite of himself. Now was certainly not a time to show weakness, but he seemed powerless to do anything else. He tried to shove down his rising fear, burying it deep within himself where none could see, but when a dark shadow stepped into the doorway, Merry knew it was no use. His skin was crawling, his hands were cold as ice, and his stomach churned with nausea as all reason fled his mind.

"My greetings, Meriadoc Brandybuck." There was a slight clink of mail as the shadow stepped into the room, and it seemed that the lone torch dimmed in response to the presence of this man. The hood of the cloak was slowly lifted, and Merry found himself looking upon the visage of a nightmare. This creature, though he might at one time have been human, was no longer truly a man. The skin of his face was unnaturally pale, and lines creased his forehead and eyes while scars wound their way down his cheeks. Depthless black eyes glittered with a fiery insanity, and it seemed that tendrils of darkness had coiled themselves within this man’s being, surging and pressing for release.

"Who are you?"

Merry did not even realize he was asking the question until the words left his lips, but once spoken, he could not retract them. Unable to help himself, he pressed his back harder against the cold stone beneath him and whimpered slightly. His pride and will railed sharply against this action, but Merry was quickly losing what little control he had.

"Who am I? Ah, so you were not the halfling who stood before the Morannon that day. Doubtless, though, you have heard of me. Yes, I am most certain you have heard of me. They believed me dead upon the field, those who found me, and so left me as carrion among the corpses of the Orcs." The man who was not quite a man leaned toward the hobbit, and with a sense of helpless desperation, Merry tried to back away only to discover that he had nowhere to go. "I was among the most trusted advisors to the great Eye. Long ago, I was taken from Harad where my people have hidden for years, cursed by our Númenórean blood to live in exile or hide our lineage. I was taught by Sauron himself, the Necromancer, the Dark Lord, and through his training I have come into my own, Meriadoc, son of Saradoc. I was known as the Mouth of Sauron, but now you shall become the mouth. I have a message for your friends, young hobbit, and you and the elf shall deliver it for me. But there are things you must learn before you will be ready to deliver this message. What say you, knight of Rohan? Shall we begin the lessons?"

"Whatever you do to me, I was one of the Nine Walkers," Merry said bravely though his heart was pounding so loudly in his chest it was a wonder that the sound of it did not echo about the room like the drums of Moria.

"Yes, a member of the famous Fellowship, a group of witless, hapless fools who blundered their way to victory with the aid of chance and the fickle graces of fortune," the Mouth of Sauron sneered, and Merry decided that he was in trouble. Not that he hadn’t been in trouble before, but it was quickly becoming apparent to the hobbit that he was actually in more trouble than he’d first decided. "You will find the other Fellowship members soon, I promise you that. But you are not yet properly prepared." Hands the temperature of ice water came to rest on either side of Merry’s face and the hobbit squeezed his eyes shut and steeled himself, somehow knowing that everything he’d faced before was going to be as nothing compared to whatever was about to happen.

Pain suddenly assailed his thoughts and a darkness so black it eclipsed even the very hope of light slammed into him, demanding access to his mind and his agency. Skidding backward in his mind, Merry braced himself and tried to fight back, but at that moment, the Mouth of Sauron seized one of his broken arms and twisted. The sudden physical pain cost Merry his tentative hold on reality, and he felt himself pushed further back while darkness rose to claim him. Words began to seep into his mind, orders and suggestions. Merry couldn’t understand most of them as they were clouded in a dark speech that seemed to weave an entangling web within his mind, but he felt himself wishing to obey what was told him.

__

NO! his mind screamed, recoiling at the darkness that now filled his entire world. For his defiance his other arm was twisted brutally and the hobbit cried aloud in pain, once again faltering before the wave of evil. It tore through his mind, taking advantage of his distraction and planting seeds of shadow throughout. The pain grew and the world began to spin violently as Merry felt himself flung through a blackness that seemed to shatter as a mirror crashing into the ground. Shards flew past the hobbit, tearing and cutting, and Merry heard himself screaming. For a moment and an eternity, the hobbit struggled against the shadows that dragged him toward a pit of darkness that had suddenly materialized. Somehow, through means he did not fully understand, Merry realized that if he fell into that pit, he would never recover. This knowledge gave him strength, and despite the pain of his body and the agony of his mind, he resumed the struggle. His screams became louder in response to his fight, the darkness closed in as a predator over a kill, and Merry knew death was but a breath away.

And then everything stopped.

The mental pain ceased, the darkness disappeared, the shadows fled, and Merry was left with the physical complaints of his body that seemed trivial in view of what had just happened. The icy fingers that had pressed so hard against his temples fell away, and as tendrils of darkness began to disperse within his mind, Merry fell into an exhausted and a dreamless sleep.


	12. Hope for Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you already know this, so this is for the rest of you. Im currently in an EXTREMELY intensive language program right now (Arabic, if anyones interested) and updates are going to be few and far between until about the middle of August. Sorry about that. That said, please bear with me because I really am trying to get these chapters out for all my stories, including this one. Its just not happening very quickly, so my apologies.

Arwen was not accustomed to impatience.

As an elf, even during the long years of Aragorn’s absence and Sauron’s growing shadow, Arwen had never truly felt the passage of time. The stretch of many years behind her and the promise of endless years before her should she elect to choose the path of her father made it impossible to completely understand what even the passing of a day meant to men. But now, shorn of her elven immortality, Arwen began to comprehend why men were so quick to act and so easily dismayed by the loss of time. To them, every second was a gift that ought not to be wasted, and the passing minutes she now experienced, each one filled with worry and fear, were a distress and a puzzle to her. Her anxiety over the fate of Legolas and Merry was coupled with her growing awareness of time, and these forces combined to create situation of anguish the likes of which Arwen had never before experienced.

__

And beyond that, I am pacing! she realized with something akin to horror, noting how her feet had followed a path back and forth between Rivendell’s various balconies. Elves did not pace. At least, elves did not usually pace and the few occasions upon which she could remember an elf pacing were those involving extreme worry and grief. Her father had paced while waiting for Celebrían to regain consciousness after Elrohir and Elladan liberated her from Orcs. Celeborn had paced when the White Council finally acted against Dol Guldur, for his warriors bore the brunt of the work and Galadriel suffered greatly while drawing upon Nenya for power to protect their people. But other than these rare instances, Arwen could not recall that elves paced. Yet she was pacing now and was further disconcerted because of this.

With a shake of her head, Arwen firmly stopped her wandering feet and took a deep breath, attempting to calm her mind. But peace seemed far away and the queen of Gondor was eventually forced to give up her faltering attempts at meditation, resigning herself to the fact that she was anxious, worried, and there was very little she could do about it. _But surely there is somewhat I can do to relieve these feelings even if I may not totally rid myself of them_ , she thought. _I am not the first to harbor such fear and frustration, and there must be ways of dealing with this. Mortals have lived with this all their lives._ Thinking for a minute or so, Arwen at length decided that what she needed was distraction and purpose. She was doing naught to aid her husband at the moment, and should she engage herself in such a cause, surely her worry and anxiety would abate somewhat. _Or so I hope…_

Resolved upon this new course of action—and realizing she should have thought of this earlier—Arwen set off on a search for Celeborn and Elrohir. They would surely have some project or task that required her assistance, and even if they did not, speaking with them might calm her nerves to the point where she could find something to do on her own. 

Stopping to inquire of a few elves, it did not take her long to discover that Elrohir had left Rivendell with Sam, Pippin, and three scouts from Lothlórien in tow. Curious as to what would cause her brother to leave his appointed post, Arwen began searching in earnest for her grandfather. Information regarding him was more difficult to come by for he seemed to have disappeared after seeing Elrohir off, but after a concerted effort, Arwen eventually found herself before the doors of her father’s massive library.

It had been long since Arwen had entered the library, and she wondered if it had seen much use since Elrond’s departure. She felt certain that Elladan visited this place often, and Elrohir probably joined him, but with the eldest of the elves now gone and the threat of Sauron’s evil destroyed, there were few in Imladris who would have much interest in searching the records of the Ages. Lifting the handles of the tall oak doors, Arwen pulled them open and was greeted by the smell of parchment and leather. It was a familiar smell and a comforting one, for many were the nights she had spent in here at her father’s side, listening to his rich voice relate stories of the past or simply sitting with him as he studied. Oftentimes, Elladan would be with them, and they would talk long into the night, rejoicing in one another’s company and reliving the younger days of Rivendell when Sauron was driven east of the Misty Mountains and it seemed that the darkness could be defeated.

__

Focus, Arwen told herself sternly with a shake of her head. _This is not a time to reminisce of the past but a time to prepare for the future. Nostalgia has no place here._ Disciplining her thoughts, the daughter of Elrond stepped into the wide room filled with tables and tall shelves, her eyes sweeping the area for Celeborn.

She eventually found him in a remote corner of the library where the scrolls and manuscripts were so old that the pages cracked and splintered if even the slightest breeze brushed against them. Celeborn was completely intent upon a volume of history before him, and for a moment, Arwen was content to stand quietly and watch as the lord of Lothlórien poured over the ancient book, the title of which had long ago disappeared from the leather cover. Celeborn’s silver hair glistened in the light of a tall window behind him as sunlight flickered through the trees that stood as sentinels outside. Memories flooded through Arwen yet again, and for a brief time, it seemed as though her father had returned and lost himself in the library, seeking the answers to a shadowy riddle or searching for a way to fight the darkness. Almost she could see Glorfindel searching the shelves and selecting parchments that might be of use while Elladan peered over her father’s shoulder and Elrohir brought meals from the kitchen. Then the moment passed, the figures of years long gone faded from sight, and Arwen returned to the present. With a sigh for what would never be again, the daughter of Elrond shook herself slightly and stepped forward, clearing her throat.

Celeborn jumped, and in spite of herself, Arwen could not hide a smile. It was a measure of how involved the other elf was in his studies and also spoke of the situation’s seriousness, yet Arwen could not quite contain herself. She had never seen her grandfather taken by surprise like that, and she wished Galadriel had been there to see it. Celeborn scowled at her for her mirth, but there was no censure in his gaze and more than a little humor in his deep eyes.

"Your father and brothers trained you well. I did not hear your approach."

"You were distracted, my lord," Arwen answered. "I am certain that I could not do it again."

"Are you? I am not." Celeborn smiled and shook his head. "It is well that there were no others here to see that, else I should not hear the end of it. Celeborn the Wise, husband to Galadriel and defender of Lothlórien, taken completely unawares in quite possibly the quietest place in all of Arda—Rivendell’s library."

"You are kind to humor me," Arwen said, pulling up a dusty chair and taking a seat.

"There are those who would call me weak, but I will take kindness as a compliment," Celeborn said, a strange twinkle in his eye. "And you are kind to create allowances for me. But you did not come here to surprise me, or I hope you did not. What is your errand, Arwen?"

"Answers, for one. For another, purpose." Arwen sighed and looked down at her hands where they lay folded in her lap. "I fear that I have become impatient with our lack of progress, and I look to change that," she confessed after a moment, feeling Celeborn’s sharp eyes upon her. "I would learn what we face, and I seek to help us through what means I have."

"You say you are impatient? Strange. Does mortality weigh so heavily upon you?"

Arwen bristled slightly and straightened in her chair. "If I may be permitted to remind you, the king of Gondor and the lords of Imladris are currently in the surrounding forests looking for a large party of Orcs that have—"

"Peace," Celeborn interrupted, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Peace, child, I meant no disrespect. In any case, you are not alone in your impatience." The lord of Lothlórien sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. "Your brothers also seem to be anxious for action, and Thranduil…Thranduil has never been particularly good at waiting. But I am at a loss as to what you would have me do for you. The others are venting their impatience by searching the woods and wading through shadows. Shall I send you forth to join them? And if so, will you defend my actions to Aragorn when he comes seeking my head for placing you in danger?"

"As for the danger, I am perfectly capable of defending myself should aught happen," Arwen answered with a mixture of pride and indignation. "Aragorn knows that well, though he is by nature very protective. But I had not thought to leave Rivendell, for I know well that my place is not with those who track. I have not been fully trained in the ways of the hunt, and I would hinder rather than help them."

"Then what do you propose?" Celeborn asked.

"I would help you in your efforts," Arwen responded. "You have managed to occupy yourself here in Imladris, and I would share what burdens you have. Surely you have need of some assistance."

Celeborn was silent for a moment and then he smiled. "You have your father’s wisdom, Arwen. And I will readily admit that your help would be welcome here. However, I must warn you that if you struggle with patience, this is tedious work. Do you still wish to aid me?"

"So long as I can keep my mind occupied, I shall be happy," Arwen promised. "And if I may aid you in the process, so much the better. But if I may pose a question ere we begin, why has Elrohir left Rivendell? And what tidings did Haldir bring with him when he and his brothers came back from the north? For I learned of their return yet they seem to have left again."

"Shadows," Celeborn said, his voice quiet and his eyes strangely blank. "They brought tidings of shadows that flow across the ground as water might flow in a meandering river."

"The same shadows that Thranduil’s scouts reported?" Arwen asked.

"I believe so," Celeborn said. "But Haldir was able to give me better details as to the nature and appearance of this darkness. We knew before that it was most likely the work of a Black Númenórean, but Haldir’s words confirmed it. And more than that, they gave me a clue as to the level of expertise and power of the enemy we now face."

"And for what purpose did you send Elrohir south?"

"I did not send Elrohir south. Rather he went south of his own accord after leaving Rivendell in my care," Celeborn corrected. "He was guiding Samwise and Peregrin as well, for they wished to join in the search. Hobbits." The lord of Lothlórien chuckled and shook his head. "Would that Gandalf were still with us, for perhaps he could aid us in understanding the little ones. Great is their courage, and greater still are their hearts. Would that all of Arda could be as they."

"You speak truly," Arwen agreed. "Their ways are simple, but they do not lack for charity or compassion." She smiled, thinking of her own experiences with hobbits, and then turned her mind back to the matter at hand. "Well, now that I have my answers, grandfather, let me see if I can aid you in your own search for answers. Am I correct in assuming that we seek for a way to track in this darkness?"

"Nay, for I have dealt with such darkness before and have sent word with Elrohir as to how this darkness may be defeated."

Arwen frowned, puzzled. "Then for what do we look? Do you have more information of which I am unaware? For I see no leads that we might follow."

"Perhaps not, but a thought occurred to me as I spoke with Haldir and his brothers. I am puzzled, Arwen, that our unknown enemy would seek to make prisoners of the Fellowship. And I am puzzled that he has not made demands of ransom or surrender. He plans something for his captives. He plans something dark that will eventually involve the rest of us, yet his intentions are still a mystery."

"Such thoughts have also occurred to me, but where shall we begin searching?" Arwen asked. "To seek through endless records of possible spells and incantations seems fruitless."

"But the records need not be _endless_ , as you say. There are clues that might limit our search. For example, whatever is planned must require time, for our enemy has gone to great lengths in order to ensure that we do not follow him. He does not plan for us to rescue our friends in the near future. But he obviously means for us to have contact with them again, else he would have killed them already and had done with it."

"This is well and good, my lord, but that does not seem to narrow the field sufficiently," Arwen said. "Nor does it give us a place where our search might begin."

"Then we must start where all searches ultimately begin," Celeborn answered, gesturing to the books in front of him. "We must start with a search for origins. The beginning of a story often holds the key to deciphering the story’s end."

"But for what origins are we looking?" Arwen pressed. "The origins of this shadow? The origins of the Black Númenóreans? Perhaps the origins of Melkor or Sauron?"

"Nay, rather the origins of spells that might be used on prisoners. Spells that require time and spells that would be useful should prisoners ever meet again with their old comrades."

"And an example of these would be…"

Celeborn sighed and turned back to his book. "In truth, I know not. But an answer must be here, and when we find it, we shall know it."

The daughter of Elrond frowned and studied the lord of Lothlórien. "This is unlike you. You know something, do you not? Something is guiding you in this, but you are hesitant to say what."

"Think of it as intuition."

"But you were never one to trust solely to intuition," Arwen said, her brow furrowing with concern and confusion. "That was grandmother’s role. You were ever the practical one, pursuing all possible explanations before accepting the most logical one."

"Then think of this as the pursuit of a possible explanation," Celeborn said, his eyes skimming over a page so quickly that one might wonder if he read the words at all.

"But this is not the pursuit of a possible explanation," Arwen protested. "To all appearances, you are chasing shadows, and if this is truly the case, then there is something terribly wrong." Arwen stopped as a thought occurred to her. "Have you had aught to eat today?"

"I partook somewhat last night."

"And what of sleep?" Elrond’s daughter pressed. "Have you rested?"

Celeborn sighed and looked up at her, his face taking on a look of guarded annoyance. "There has been no time for it. What of you, young one? Have _you_ rested?"

"Did you attempt this behavior when Galadriel was still here?" Arwen demanded, ignoring her grandfather’s return question. "For I know well that she would not tolerate this."

Celeborn chuckled and the irritation vanished from his eyes. "Nay, she was very strict when it came to my health. But even Galadriel could not see everything, and there were times when sacrifices were necessary. Worry not, child, I know my limits. I have passed them before and have no wish to relive the consequences. Now, do you intend to help me or shall you continue in your efforts to distract me?"

Arwen sighed, directed a stern glower at her grandfather, and then took one of the large books from the table. "Tell me again what I should be looking for."

* * * *

Swirling images of pain and torture were the first things to greet Legolas as he slowly journeyed from a blissful void toward the realm of consciousness. It was not a journey he really wished to make, but his body seemed to have other ideas. Despite his fervent desire to remain ignorant of both his surroundings and his situation, Legolas was slowly waking up.

Nor was this waking process a kind one, for the elf was quick to discover that there was not an area of his body uninhibited by pain. Cracked and broken ribs squeezed painfully at his lungs. A strange ringing filled his ears and his head pounded from one too many punches. His back was a raw mass of welts from cruel whips. Burn marks could be traced on both his arms and his legs. His wrists were shattered. His stomach had been deeply slashed by a blade, though Legolas could not clearly remember that happening. One knee was severely wrenched and throbbed ceaselessly. And to top it all off, he was thirsty.

__

Thirst, he thought to himself with a touch of insane laughter. _I am thirsty. Of all the things to notice, I realize that I am thirsty._ He idly wondered if he might not also be hungry, but a sudden surge of nausea from his heavily bruised abdomen quickly laid to rest that possibility.

Still, thirst was something he could deal with. He’d been thirsty before, after all, so he tried to concentrate his mind on worrying over that detail. It was his hope that his body’s other complaints might fade into background noise, but such was not to be the case. As he drew closer to full consciousness, the wounds on his back began to sting and throb, demanding at least a small part of his attention. At this point, the elf also realized that his clothes had been returned to him and that sometime during unconsciousness, he’d been dressed. The thought came with a feeling of wrenching disgust, but this were replaced by more immediate problems as Legolas realized that his garments were sticking to the open sores of his wounds. Even the light rise and fall of his chest was drawing pain. This caused an involuntary wince and shudder, which set off more cries from his ribs. He drew his arms down in an attempt to hold his chest and provide some support for his ribs only to have his broken wrists set up a clamor of their own. With something akin to a strangled sob, Legolas attempted to suppress the pain by taking his mind elsewhere, but this only led to further complications as he immediately began contemplating his current situation and his newly revealed enemy.

__

The Mouth of Sauron…

How had that man survived the fall of Mordor?! Aragorn had personally led a large group of scouts into the forsaken land after its fall, searching for remaining Orcs and dealing death to Sauron’s closest supporters. It was not inconceivable that a few evil creatures had escaped, particularly those who were stationed around the pass of Cirith Ungol or those who were somewhere on the eastern side of the Gorgoroth Plateau. But those who had been in the vicinity of the Morannon…how could the forces of Gondor have missed Sauron’s herald?!

Although, now that he considered it, Legolas couldn’t seem to remember finding the lieutenant of Barad-dûr among the dead. Not that he had looked particularly hard. The grounds had been littered with the dead or dying, and finding one man among thousands had not been very important or very feasible. And it had been generally assumed that the Mouth of Sauron had perished with the fall of the gates, for that was how many of the Orcs and trolls met their end. Apparently, the forces of Gondor had been gravely mistaken. _Like the Ring_ , the elf thought with a painful sigh. _It was also generally assumed that Isildur’s Bane had perished from the world, and it was almost too late when we learned differently. Shall we never cease to underestimate the enemy?_

Legolas moaned softly in the darkness, trying to banish the memories of the past and concentrate on something else, but neither the present nor the future seemed to be any better. His current injuries rendered him immobile, and if there came a chance to escape, he would be completely helpless. And if this was what he felt like, then—

Legolas stopped himself before he could consider what condition Merry might be in. That the innocence of hobbits should be marred by the cruelty of Orcs was a grievous thing to the elf, and he hoped that Merry had found refuge in unconsciousness long before the torture began in earnest. But of course, Merry would have been awake and aware when the Mouth of Sauron had entered. The Orcs had been ordered to see to that, and they would never dare disobey such a command. And if the hobbit’s meeting with Sauron’s lieutenant had been anything like the elf’s encounter with the dark man shortly after the Orcs had finished their foul games…

Screams abruptly shattered the air beside the elf, and the silence broke into slicing shards of glass that pierced Legolas’s soul with every wrenching cry. Jarred into almost complete consciousness, Legolas flinched violently and tried desperately to lock down his hearing in an effort to ignore the torturous wails that shot up from an abused hobbit. Stricken by the piercing agony in Merry’s voice, Legolas sought to focus solely on his injuries to the exclusion of the outside world, but still the screams rang through. _Swoon, Merry!_ the elf pleaded desperately, wishing he had the strength to speak these words aloud. _By the Valar, if there is any mercy left in this accursed world, let him swoon!_ But the horrible cries continued, growing in volume until Legolas felt his heart would be torn asunder. Loud they echoed off the walls, answering one another in a raging cacophony of sound that threatened to destroy Legolas’s sensitive elven hearing even as his emotions were shredded by the agony caught up in those eternal screams.

And then, just as quickly as they had begun, the screams stopped. For a brief time, silence fell over all.

But Legolas was given no time to wonder at this, for not more than a moment after Merry had stopped screaming, a wave of darkness slammed against the prince, seeking to invade his mind and poison his soul. With elven stubbornness, he struck back, barring the shadow from his thoughts. In a way, this was much like the battle he had fought with the Mouth of Sauron while lying helpless and fettered. Legolas had won during that particular meeting, or so he thought, but he had the uncomfortable premonition that in this encounter, he would not to be so successful.

The darkness came again, this time bringing with it a burning fire that began consuming the prince from within. Legolas heard himself moan despite his efforts to hold back any outward sign of his pain, and he tried to stifle his tongue and retain mastery of his physical reactions. But as the fire intensified and combined with the throbbing pain of his wounds, he eventually lost control and began to scream as Merry had. Still the shadows beat at the walls he constructed around his mind, and still he held them off, but the exquisite pain that encompassed his entire being in flame could not be ignored. It seemed to be taking all the physical complaints of his body and amplifying them tenfold. Wailing in agony, he soon exhausted what strength had been left to him and was forced to retreat to a far corner of his mind in the hopes of retaining an inkling of sanity.

This seemed to be the opportunity for which the shadows had been waiting. Darkness swept over the elf and a new pain entered his body. The terrible fire vanished, but he felt bones begin to move and scrape against one another. Piercing agony shot through his wrists and a great weight pressed down on his chest. He screamed again, lost in shadows and battling vainly against the darkness, but his will was thrown aside and his mind became a void. The darkness had forced its way into his soul and it would not leave without a fight. Blackness crept over him but he could not attain the bliss of unconsciousness because of the physical pain that engulfed his entire being.

And then it stopped. Everything stopped. Silence fell, and the pain subsided. Only the shadow of darkness remained, probing at the prince’s heart and clutching at his thoughts with icy fingers. It was still in his mind, having never left after forcing the elf to abandon the playing field, and Legolas feared he might now never free himself of evil’s stain.

"Legolas?"

Called by a tentative voice that seemed to reach vainly for hope, the elf opened his eyes and found himself looking into Merry’s worried face. The flickering torchlight soon revealed to him that he was back in his original cell and that he and Merry were once again alone. With a soft sigh, the prince of Mirkwood tightened his jaw and bleakly wondered what came next.

"Legolas, can you sit?" the hobbit asked.

Legolas nearly laughed aloud as his sanity teetered precariously on a ragged edge. Could he sit? With his ribs tearing at his lungs, he doubted he could even give a verbal answer to the question. He took a breath to make the attempt anyway, but he abruptly stopped, puzzled. There had been no pain. Moreover, his head no longer hurt. Even his wrists had stopped throbbing. Slowly, afraid of what had happened, he raised himself up on an elbow.

"I don’t understand it either," Merry whispered. "One minute I’m hoping I’ll die, and the next minute, I’m healed."

"Healed," Legolas murmured, holding his arm out before his eyes. Even in the dim light, he could see that the burn marks and scars had disappeared completely. All the wounds incurred from the Orcs were gone. But why? How? And at what cost? The elf shook his head, still very aware of the presence of evil in his mind. The shadows that now hung over him must have been responsible for healing him, and in his weakened physical and mental state, he had been unable to resist the darkness. And now that it had broken into his mind…

"The door is open," Merry suddenly noticed. "Legolas, they’ve left the door open!"

The elf pulled himself from his thoughts and glanced up. The hobbit was right. The door to their cell had been left open. Neither had the Orcs shackled the two prisoners. Elven instincts on alert, Legolas searched the shadows around them for any sign of movement, but he found nothing. What was going on?

"I don’t like this," was Merry’s whispered contribution.

"Nor do I," Legolas murmured. It was a trap. It had to be a trap. But what was the purpose of such a trap? Did the Orcs really want the prisoner’s to attempt an escape so that they could be hunted down later? It made no sense! Was it some strange lesson in humiliation? A training exercise for mountain goblins? The biggest mistake ever made by Orc security guards? Struggling to make sense of an impossible situation, Legolas slowly got to his feet, somewhat fearful that the healing was only a temporary measure, and then walked forward hesitantly. Still he found nothing. As far as his senses could tell, he and Merry were alone.

"We know one thing at least," the elf said at length. "Pippin and Gimli were not taken by the Orcs. Through means of which we know naught, they managed to escape. If it were otherwise, they would have been kept with us so that we might enjoy one another’s torment."

"That’s good to know," the hobbit said, quiet relief evident in his voice. He walked to the elf’s side as though fearful of being left alone in the shadows. "I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy."

"Yes, it is a consolation of sorts," Legolas murmured, thinking that he had a few enemies upon which he would gladly wish this torture.

"So now that we don’t have to worry about our friends, let’s worry about us," Merry said. "I might not be an expert on Orcs, but I was captured once before and I don’t think that open door is normal."

"I have only hunted Orcs," Legolas said quietly, considering the unlocked cell. "Until now, it has not been my misfortune to fall into their hands. At least, not for any extended period of time. Still, in this we are agreed, insofar as our limited knowledge grants us insight. They are waiting for us to do something. That door was not left open by chance."

"But what are they doing? And why? Is this a sick game to them? It’s as if they want us to leave, but that doesn’t make any sense! Are they just playing with us right now? And if so, why?"

Grimacing with indecision, Legolas moved gingerly toward the open cell door, expecting to be assailed at any moment. But the dark caves remained as silent as ever, and Legolas tried to ignore the way their stillness made the walls seem to close in. He peered outside the cell and looked down the dark corridors, but as before, he could still see nothing. The elf rapidly harked back through long years of exacting training under his father’s stern captains. He had hated them at the time and he could not say he now looked back on them with a great deal of fondness, but he was grateful for their lessons, harsh though they had been at times. Unfortunately, their tutelage was not doing him any good at the moment. They had never discussed the possibility that one’s captor might deliberately leave the cell door ajar.

"I do not know what our enemies want," he eventually whispered, feeling Merry’s presence close behind him. "But I will not turn aside any possibility that we might lead us to escape. Whatever game they are playing, let us see if we cannot beat them at it."

"Then I’m right behind you. I’m good at games, and besides that, I’m hungry again. But I don’t fancy waiting around for a meal," Merry said, and Legolas smiled, thankful that the hobbit trademarks of unquenchable optimism and eternal lightheartedness were holding up well in Merry. They made the darkness easier to bear. "So, which way do we go?" the hobbit wondered.

"One way seems to be as good as another," Legolas murmured, loath to admit that he had no idea which direction to take. "I have been in Orc caverns only once before, and then I did not venture far. But from what I remember of that experience, this network of tunnels will eventually join a larger tunnel, and that tunnel should lead us to the outside world. It is for this larger tunnel that we must search."

"In other words, we wander until we find something promising," Merry translated. "Legolas, I would have thought that someone who has lived as long as you have lived could come up with a plan that sounded a little more encouraging, but I guess I was wrong."

Legolas sighed. "If you have a better idea, Master Hobbit, please feel free to suggest it."

"I don’t or I would," the hobbit said. He stepped out of the cell and stopped as though waiting for something to sound an alarm. "Right or left?" he eventually asked, both relief and worry coloring his voice. "When the Orcs hauled me off, it was to the right. I didn’t notice anything that looked like an exit, but I swooned not long after we separated. By the time I woke up, I was in a little room and the Orcs…" Merry trailed off and shivered. "I’m just glad they didn’t make me stay conscious for very long."

"To my misfortune, I was very conscious for most of the experience," Legolas said quietly with a slight shudder that could not be suppressed. "Alas, I saw nothing resembling an escape for us in the left passage, though there were many tunnels."

"Then let’s go right," Merry suggested. "Maybe there was something I missed while I was unconscious."

"Perhaps," Legolas allowed, though he seriously doubted it. He knew nothing of Orc tunneling techniques, but if they were anything like the dwarves’, the prisons and holding cells would be far from the entrance. Gimli had taken great pains to see that Legolas was intimately familiar with the traditional layout of a dwarven stronghold, and the elf was forced to admit that such knowledge had served him well during his visits to the Glittering Caves. Now he hoped that the Orcs mirrored somewhat the patterns of the dwarves, for if they did, the journey might become easier. "Right it is, then," the elf finally said, stepping forward and taking the lead. "But stay close, my friend. Something evil is at work here, and I fear that we are doing exactly as it would have us do."

"I love the way elves become so optimistic when things are dark," Merry muttered.

Legolas decided not to respond to that. The accusation was accurate enough, in any case, and there were more important things to worry about. Despite the lack of evidence before his eyes and ears, Legolas had the feeling that their movements were observed and, to a certain extent, even encouraged. It was not a comforting notion, but there seemed to be nothing that could be done about it. Choking down a growing fear that they were playing right into the enemy’s hands, elf and hobbit started forward into the darkness.

 

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Author’s Notes: Some of you already know this, so this is for the rest of you. I’m currently in an EXTREMELY intensive language program right now (Arabic, if anyone’s interested) and updates are going to be few and far between until about the middle of August. Sorry about that. That said, please bear with me because I really am trying to get these chapters out for all my stories, including this one. It’s just not happening very quickly, so my apologies.


	13. Riddles in the Dark, Answers in the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me again, stopping in to explain something I used in this chapter as well as to answer a few questions that popped up concerning the last chapter. Ready? Here we go!

Despite the warmth of the bright sun overheard, Peregrin Took wrapped his cloak firmly about himself and shivered. He stood knee-deep in a mist of darkness, and its disorienting chill was enough to dim the afternoon sun. His pony had refused to enter this flowing shadow and Pippin had whole-heartedly agreed with the horse’s sentiments, but the elves, Aragorn, and Gimli were pressing forward and Pippin wasn’t about to be left behind. True, all of the men of Gondor had stayed behind with the horses at Aragorn’s insistence—though Imhran had protested somewhat over this—and there would have been little shame if Pippin had elected to stay with them. Like the Gondorrim, he could not move about in the trees to escape the darkness and was forced to endure it without hope of relief. But the Took refused to stay. He had fought against being left behind far too often in the past to lose the battle now. Besides, Merry was somewhere beyond the darkness, and were their places exchanged, the Brandybuck wouldn’t hesitate a bit about braving the shadows for Pippin’s sake.

"We’re coming, Merry," Pippin promised, his voice soft as he stared into the surrounding forest and tried not to imagine all the types of creatures that might be lurking in the darkness. Aside from the cold, that was another problem with these swirling shadows. They had a tendency to play tricks on the mind. It was actually a very strange mist when one took the time to analyze it, and having nothing better to do, Pippin had analyzed it several times over. It was not something that one could physically feel. There was no sensation of touch as one walked through it. It was as an intangible shadow wholly within the realm of the mind. It made the day cold and dark as well as bewildering and confusing the thoughts of all who touched it, but the dark mist itself seemed to lack substance.

"I don’t fancy the pickle we’ve landed ourselves in now, Pippin," a voice at his side growled, and Pippin looked over as he was joined by a shivering Sam. "Strider and Elladan don’t seem to be making any headway, and this shadow, or whatever it is, can’t be good for us."

"Orophin offered to take us up into the trees if it became too bad," Pippin said, glancing around for the warden of Lothlórien.

"What good will that do us?" Sam asked. "In the trees or on the ground, it’s all the same. We’re just baggage, Pippin. We’re not doing them any good."

The Took frowned and turned to his companion, studying the other hobbit carefully. "Didn’t Rosie tell you something like that before you left? She said you wouldn’t be able to do anything here. But that didn’t stop you back at Rivendell. What’s wrong now?"

Sam’s mouth tightened into a thin line, but he made no answer and instead turned away, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"Sam?" Pippin prompted.

"I don’t know, Pippin," the other hobbit finally whispered. "I just feel…I don’t rightly know how I feel. But…"

"But you don’t like feeling helpless, and that’s how you feel right now," Pippin finished for him with a sigh. "I know exactly what you’re going through. I’m going through it, too. But Sam, if we head back to Rivendell, it’s a sure thing that Strider won’t send for us when it comes time to do battle. This is the only way we can be involved. We just have to wait for something to happen, and when that something does happen, we won’t be useless anymore." A feeling of rage powerful enough to blot out the shadows took Pippin’s heart, and he smote the hilt of his sword. "By the Shire, those Orcs will be sorry they ever thought about touching Merry! I swear it on the blood of all the Tooks!"

Sam looked up quickly, apparently startled by Pippin’s harsh tone, but he nodded slowly. "You’re right, Pippin, and I think that, deep down, I always knew that. But that doesn’t change how I’m feeling. And it doesn’t help, either."

"Maybe it’s this darkness," Pippin said, feeling some of his anger drain away at Sam’s words. He glanced at the mists swirling around their feet and shuddered slightly, feeling the disorienting chill creep back over his mind. "Should we ask Orophin about that tree now? We can stay there until Strider and Elladan figure out which way to go next."

"It would probably be for the best," Sam said with some reluctance.

"Right." Pippin turned his eyes upward, searching the leaves overhead for a sign of Orophin. Or any elf he knew, for that matter. Almost without exception, all of the elves were somewhere up in the trees for the darkness seemed to have a draining affect on them. Gimli had expressed no discomfort and Aragorn was too busy tracking the illusive Orc trail to complain about anything, but the elves were clearly uncomfortable on the ground with the swirling shadows. _As any sane being should be_ , Pippin thought to himself, still searching the trees. "Orophin?" he called out after a moment, deciding that looking for a particular elf was rather fruitless because at the moment he couldn’t see any of them.

There was a murmur of movement above them, so faint as to be just on the edge of hobbit senses, and then Orophin and Haldir dropped to a low branch just over the heads of the hobbits. "Greetings, Master Peregrin," Orophin greeted, and Haldir inclined his head by way of acknowledgement. "Is there aught I may do for you?"

"Sam and I were wondering if we could take you up on that tree offer," Pippin said. "This darkness is getting to be a bit much for us."

"Of course, my friends," Orophin immediately said. "Haldir, have you any rope?"

Orophin’s brother arched one delicate eyebrow and cocked his head to the side. "As you can plainly see, I have naught by my bow and quiver with me."

"You did not bring some on the horses?" Orophin asked.

"I did not see a use for it," Haldir replied. "And if I had, the rope would currently be back with the horses beyond this unnatural shadow."

Orophin sighed, glanced around the trees, and then looked back down at the hobbits. "Then I suppose we shall have to do this ourselves."

"We?"

"I cannot carry two hobbits into the trees by myself," Orophin reasoned, and without waiting for a response from his startled brother, the elf leaped off the branch and landed in a low crouch next to Sam. He shivered and hissed at the darkness that seemed to cling to his being, but his focus remained on the hobbits. "Come, then. I shall carry Master Samwise and Haldir shall take Master Peregrin."

Haldir murmured something rather unsavory about this arrangement in Sindarin, but as Orophin had already picked Sam up and leaped onto the lowest branch he could find, there was little Haldir could do about the situation. With what Pippin assumed to be some kind of a curse, Haldir let himself down off his branch and landed silently next to the Took.

"Let us finish this ordeal quickly," he muttered, his eyes darting about the forest floor. "This darkness is not natural, and I have no wish to endure it."

"I couldn’t have said it better myself," Pippin answered, hastily clambering onto Haldir’s back. "All settled here."

"Good." And at that word, Haldir launched himself back into the trees. For a brief moment, Pippin felt as though he was flying, and then leaves were dancing past his face. Closing his eyes and tightening his hold on Haldir’s neck, he sighed as he felt darkness flee his body to be replaced by the light of the elves.

"Pippin?"

Pippin opened his eyes and looked over at Sam, who was propped between two branches and clutching the thick limbs with all the strength in his body. "Comfortable?" Pippin asked innocently.

"Down you go, Master Peregrin," Haldir instructed, kneeling so that the hobbit might place his feet upon the branch. "I advise you to stay here, for I have no wish to retrieve you again."

"Thank you," Pippin said, transferring from Haldir’s back to the tree. A moment of vertigo took him, but he caught himself and forced several calming breaths into his lungs. "That foggy mist down there…well, it isn’t good to stand in for too long."

"I understand all too well, young one," Haldir said. "Let us hope, though, that your dwarven friend may endure it. For if he wishes to seek refuge in the trees, he shall have to do so on his own. I refuse to assist a dwarf in such a manner."

"Do you fear that your strength might fail you in such an attempt?" Orophin asked, a teasing smile upon his lips.

"Dwarves do not belong among trees," Haldir said sharply, his eyes flashing slightly. "And it is only by King Elessar’s good will, as well as the good will of Lord Elrohir and Lord Elladan, that he is here."

"Lord Celeborn holds no quarrel with Gimli," Orophin pointed out as Pippin attempted to cement his balance so that he might participate in this conversation. "And he was favored by the Lady ere she passed over the sea."

"You are too young to understand, brother," Haldir said.

"And you are too old to change."

Pippin had to stifle a laugh at that particular statement. It was actually something he’d heard Gimli say to Legolas once when they were discussing the merits of pipe-weed. Or rather, Gimli had been discussing the merits and Legolas had been informing the dwarf as to all its disadvantages. As Pippin remembered, it had been one of their more entertaining debates and had ultimately resulted in a room full of smoke from Gimli’s pipe. Arwen had protested rather emphatically, fearful that the smoke might linger into their wedding day, and Aragorn had ordered all the windows in the citadel to be opened.

"Begging your pardon," Sam interrupted, still clinging tightly to the tree’s branches, "but Gimli’s been a good friend to me as long as I’ve known him, and if Legolas were here, he’d tell you the same. There’s no call to be putting him down just because he’s a dwarf."

"Sam speaks for me, too," Pippin said, finally getting his balance. "Gimli was one of the Fellowship, and he’s just as much a hero as Strider and Gandalf."

For a moment, there was silence in the trees, and then Haldir said something in Sindarin and left, vanishing into the foliage as if he were a part of it. Orophin watched him go with something akin to sadness and then shook his head. "My apologies, on his behalf," the elf said at length with a sorrowful sigh. "He and Rúmil like not the changes that have come upon this world. The time of our people is ending, but they cannot accept it."

"What about you?" Pippin heard himself asking ere he could stop his words.

Fortunately, Orophin found the question amusing rather than offending. "What of me?" he echoed, a small smile finding its way onto his face. "Verily, that is the question each much ask, I fear. For myself, I would see the elves keep their honor and depart in peace, though some of us will linger as long as we are able. The woods of Lothlórien and southern Greenwood are fair and great, and I would not leave them yet. But the years are passing quickly now, and all things must wear to an end. It will be a hard ending for the elves." Orophin fell silent, his eyes vacant. "There are some who believe that elves may learn to live among men. Prince Legolas is among these. His father, by contrast, is one who believes that elves may remain secluded and yet still carry with them the power of times long past. I know not if either is right, but for those of us who dwell in Lothlórien, I fear our only choice is to pass over the sea. The time is coming, and no act of ours shall hasten or delay its arrival."

"I’m sorry," Sam whispered, watching the elf with sympathetic eyes.

Orophin laughed, his somber mood vanishing as quickly as it had come. "Nay, there is nothing for which you must be sorry, little one. The time of the elves has been great, and many deeds, both wondrous and grievous, have we done. It is now your time, the time of the mortals. But I fear I must leave you now, for I have duties to Lord Elladan and King Elessar. If you have need of aught, call." And with this, the elf turned and left, following the path of his brother and vanishing from mortal sight.

For a moment, there was an awkward silence, and then Sam sighed. "Now what?"

"What do you mean?" Pippin asked.

"We’re in a tree!" Sam exclaimed as though that would explain everything.

"You wanted to be in a tree. We’re not wading through that stuff down there," Pippin said, gesturing to the ground.

"I don’t know as this is any better," Sam grumbled, wrapping his arms tighter about his branch.

Pippin rolled his eyes and was about to say something about the mushrooms being bigger in someone else’s field, but a sharp whistle caught his attention first. Jerking his head around and almost falling in the process, he soon heard other whistles and then the unmistakable whine of flying arrows.

"Orophin!" he cried.

"Peace, little ones!" Orophin was suddenly back on their branch, his bow in his hand and one arrow already notched. "Orcs have come upon us, but we did not sense them until now. This darkness has clouded our minds and diminished our senses. Yet fear nor. We shall drive them. Await my return!" Orophin suddenly loosed an arrow and then leaped away. Below them, five Orcs suddenly surged forward, three of them falling with arrows embedded in their necks.

"I had hoped to never see one of those again," Sam whispered.

"Steady, Sam," Pippin encouraged, watching the battle closely. A few of the Orcs had realized that most of their adversaries were hidden in the trees and were now attempting to climb, but swift elven arrows were making short work of them. Others, though, had found prey upon the ground. To Pippin’s dismay, a dwarf suddenly stumbled into view, his axe stained with the foul blood of mountain goblins. Four Orcs followed him, surrounding the dwarf and advancing slowly. Before he even realized what he was doing, Pippin let go of his branch and landed awkwardly outside the circle.

"For Merry!" he cried, lunging forward and neatly dispatching the closest Orc. Taken by surprise, the Orc’s comrades turned to see what this new threat was, giving Gimli the chance to slay the rest of them.

"Pippin!" the dwarf roared as he relieved the last Orc of its head with one furious swing of his axe. "Pippin, this is the same foolish behavior that landed Merry in the hands of these beasts!"

Pippin’s blood boiled and he turned raging eyes upon Gimli even as his short sword caught a new advancing Orc in the stomach. "Merry and I were coming to save you and Legolas, and in that we were only doing what you would have in our place. I would rather face an army of darkness than the knowledge that I abandoned my friends. I could not leave you then, and I will not leave you now!"

The dwarf swore loudly in his own tongue but there was naught he could do about the situation. "Stand at my back," he finally said. "But stand not too close or you might feel my axe if a swing goes awry."

"Where is Aragorn?" Pippin asked.

"I was forced away from him," Gimli spat. "The Orcs swept us apart. Nor could Elrohir stand at his side, for Elladan was succumbing to the darkness of this mist. Before the Orcs attacked, Aragorn was trying to convince him to take shelter in the trees. Pippin, back!"

The dwarf’s startled order took Pippin by surprise, and he hastily moved out of Gimli’s way as three Orcs converged on the dwarf. A rush of anger took him and thoughts of vengeance on Merry’s behalf clouded his hobbit sense of self-preservation. With a cry that was more akin to a fierce knight of Gondor than a simple hobbit of the Shire, Pippin threw himself into battle, killing one of the Orcs but also earning himself a blow to the head by another that knocked him several yards away.

With his ears ringing, Pippin staggered to his feet and looked for Gimli only to discover that he had larger problems. Two more Orcs had been pressed their way and were now converging on the hobbit. Backing away quickly to prevent them from flanking him, Pippin brandished his sword and tried to swallow his sudden fear. A yell from above arrested his attention and with astonished eyes, Pippin looked upward as Sam came dropping out of a tree and landed on the back of one of the Orcs. Elven arrows suddenly sprouted in the chest of the other Orc while the blue-flamed Sting finished Sam’s enemy.

"What are you doing down here?" Pippin demanded after he recovered from his initial surprise.

"I’ll have you know that I’m asking myself the same question," Sam answered with a glare. "At least now I know that I was right when I told Rosie that you needed looking after. You’re nearly as bad as Mr. Frodo!"

"Samwise Gamgee!"

"I was saving Pippin, Gimli," Sam yelled back at the dwarf, his eyes smoldering. "So you needn’t lecture me on taking precautions. It’s Pippin as needs your lecture."

The dwarf rolled his eyes and shook his head, mumbling something about hobbits behaving like elves, but the words were quiet enough that Pippin couldn’t quite catch them. Nor was he given the chance to question Gimli, for Orophin and Rúmil dropped into view above them.

"The Orcs are in retreat," Orophin reported while Rúmil looked restlessly to the east. "Those you slew here were among the last. Our forces are attempting to follow, but the darkness is making it difficult. Senses dull and confusion sets in when we draw too far from one another. I wonder if the fact that we are in a group somehow lessens the power of the shadows, for surely it must be difficult to prey upon the light of so many elves when they are gathered together."

"Group or no group, the darkness has still dealt us a grievous blow," Rúmil said quietly. "We should have been able to follow those last Orcs and so shorten the chase. But perhaps that would not have aided us, for the trail that Lord Elladan and King Elessar were following is not the direction in which these Orcs retreated. And judging from what we have already seen, I suspect they seek to lead us away from the true goal." The elf swore quietly and then muttered something to his brother in Sindarin before leaping back up into the foliage and hastening away. Pippin had no idea what Rúmil had said, but apparently Gimli did, for the dwarf stiffened as though he had been struck and turned dark eyes toward the place where Rúmil had disappeared.

"My apologies, Master Dwarf," Orophin murmured, moving further out on his limb until he was directly over Gimli. "He did not mean it."

"And know you the intents of your brother better than he?" Gimli demanded, rounding on the elf. Orophin winced slightly but met the dwarf’s glare with a calm that reminded Pippin instantly of Legolas when he was set on proving something to Gimli. And this calm seemed to work, for Gimli eventually dropped his eyes and sighed. "My apologies in return, Orophin. My anger was not meant for you."

"I know that well, Gimli son of Glóin, and I know also the reason for your anger," the elf said, his words soft as he tried to convey comfort. "You have no fault in my eyes, and Legolas is fortunate to have such a friend as you, _elvellon_."

Gimli froze at this and blinked. "Very few elves call me by that title," the dwarf said slowly. "Are you certain you do not err in this?"

"Legolas named you _elvellon_ , did he not? I met the prince once while the Fellowship of the Ring was yet whole, and I judged him to be an elf with a sound mind and a good heart. If he elects to name you _elvellon_ , then _elvellon_ you shall be, and no prejudices of the older elves shall stand in the way. Have hope, Gimli, son of Glóin. If I, an elf of Lothlórien, can come to accept a dwarf as a friend, then favor and fortune are still at work in the world." And with these words, Orophin gave them all a bow and leaped higher into the trees, following his brother.

"What was that all about?" Pippin asked, his brow furrowed with confusion.

" _Elvellon_ means elf-friend, doesn’t it?" Sam said.

"Yes, it does," Gimli murmured. He stood silent for a moment and Pippin wondered what he had missed in the conversation, but the dwarf gave him no chance to ponder on it. "Come," Gimli said roughly, securing his axe in his belt. "Let us see how Aragorn and the others fare. And if there are more Orcs to be had, then I wish to be present."

* * * *

Cloaked in a darkness so thick it might well serve as a covering, the Mouth of Sauron leaned against a cave wall and sighed. The surviving Orcs from the most recent attack had reported in. Their loss to the search party was truly no surprise, for the simple mountain goblins stood no chance against vengeful elves on the hunt. In addition to this, there were not enough Uruk-hai to make up for the weak skills of the mountain Orcs, and the Orcs from Mordor were needed here in the caves to help with the prisoners. Thus, the attack had consisted of many incapable Orcs and a few enraged Isengard half-breeds. Defeat was expected, and the Mouth of Sauron would have been shocked if his forces had actually bested the elves.

What was surprising, however, was just how far the Rivendell search party had penetrated into the darkness he had placed to serve as a hindrance. There were elves that had lived through the Second Age in Imladris, and it had really only been a matter of time until they recognized the sorcerer’s trick that had blocked the trail of the Orcs. But the Mouth of Sauron had not anticipated that they would recognize it so quickly, nor had he expected the elves to make so much progress in following the trail. Clearly there were trackers of great skill and perception at work, and it did not take much to hazard a guess as to whom those trackers might be.

Aragorn, naturally, for there were rumors and legends of his talents as a Ranger in addition to his known leadership abilities and skills as a ruler of Gondor. And beyond Aragorn, the Mouth of Sauron strongly suspected that Elrohir and Elladan, Elrond’s sons, were somehow involved in tracking the Orcs. They had spent much time riding with the Rangers, and centuries of tracking lent itself to great gifts and talents in that area. In addition to this, Elladan seemed to have inherited his father’s gift of foresight, making a more dangerous adversary at the same time it rendered him susceptible to more subtle attacks of darkness.

Then, of course, there was King Thranduil who had somehow managed to maintain an elven homeland without an Elven Ring to aid him. The Mouth of Sauron shook his head in disgust. For long it had been suspected by some of the Nazgul that one of the Three lay hidden in Mirkwood, for surely a kingdom of elves bereft of a Ring would be unable to stand against Sauron. Yet their suspicions had all been proven false, and unaided, Thranduil had held Dol Guldur at bay long enough for Lothlórien to intervene. That ability said much of Thranduil’s skills, and he would be an asset in trailing the Orcs through the shadows for he knew what it was like to live on the boundary of darkness. So perhaps, with all these skills combining behind a common purpose, it should not have been such a surprise that the searchers were quite far along the trail. But it had still not been anticipated, and as such, it was going to create problems.

The Mouth of Sauron rubbed his brow and tried to calculate how much time was left to him for preparing the prisoners. Much now depended upon the heir of Isildur and the lords of Rivendell, but the former lieutenant of Barad-dûr did not know enough of their abilities to hazard a reliable guess. _Would that I had learned more of them and their gifts_ , he sighed, at the same time knowing that such a thing would have been nigh unto impossible. He had waited as long as he was able, studying out the movements and policies of all his enemies, but the Orcs beneath him had grown restless for vengeance with each passing day. Even their fear of him would not hold them at bay forever, nor would there be another gathering of powerful elven lords and Fellowship members for quite some time. He’d been forced to act before acquiring all the information needed, and it was now pressing his timetable together.

__

But the process cannot be rushed, he moaned silently. _The transition between prevention and compulsion is not one that can be hastened. Yet if I am unable to completely infect their minds, this attempt will be for naught._

The Mouth of Sauron was used to taking gambles. Living in the same tower as Sauron was a gamble in and of itself, and the man who no longer remembered his name had grown accustomed to the risks associated with prolonged exposure to a temperamental necromancer equipped with an all-seeing eye. Yet now, the risks were slightly different. His plan was a last, desperate gamble to seek vengeance for Lord Sauron’s fall and hopefully reestablish the power and prestige of Mordor. This latter was a dim and rather unattainable goal, but the powers of darkness were ever hopeful and ever optimistic. Not for nothing had evil survived in direct opposition to the wishes and policies of the greatest Valar, and there was always an inkling of hope that evil would continue to survive in all its dark glory and power.

"Master?"

The Mouth of Sauron reluctantly roused himself from his mental meditations and turned his attention to the outside world. "You have something to report?" he said, his cold voice seeming to lower the temperature of the room.

The Orc standing before him cringed and took a shuffling step back while nodding hastily. "I was to tell you, master, that the prisoners are nearing the main tunnels. Within an hour, they shall be in sight of the outside world. And the sun will still be out."

Raising an eyebrow at this last statement, the Mouth of Sauron stayed silent and studied the poor Orc until the creature was nearly writhing before him. "And you would refuse to follow them into sunlight should the darkness prove incapable of holding them?"

"No, we follow your orders alone!" the Orc exclaimed, his voice gravelly with forced submission.

"See that you remember it," the Mouth of Sauron said quietly. "Come, then. I will personally mark their progress and hopefully hasten the shadows within. As for you, gather the fifth regiment of Uruk-hai and send them forth to guard the entrance. If the prisoners manage to somehow fight against us, there will be no escape for them."

The Orc nodded, sketched an awkward bow, and hurriedly left. The Mouth of Sauron watched until the creature vanished into one of the off-shooting tunnels, and then he stirred himself and turned. It was beginning to look as though the prisoners would have to be rushed through the rest of their training, though what consequences that would have, the Mouth of Sauron could not say. He had never been forced to hasten this particular process, and he feared what might be the result. He could easily lose both elf and hobbit to death, or their minds might not be completely turned, leaving the way open for rebellion and dissension. Still, it was a risk that could not be avoided, and a gamble that had to be taken. With a sigh and a shake of his head, the Mouth of Sauron shook the last vestiges of tension and worry from his frame and turned his mind to the wanderings of an elf and a hobbit as they stumbled through the darkness of an Orc stronghold.

* * * *

Celeborn sighed and turned over a dusty page in his thick volume of history from the middle of the First Age. On the other side of the table, Arwen was engrossed in a scroll that looked as though it had something to do with the fall of Anárion. _From all sides of history we come at this, yet we are no closer to learning what must be learned. Arwen was right. This search is endless._

Arwen had actually been right about several things. This search was entirely out of character for the Lord of Lothlórien. He did not randomly peruse texts for answers but pondered out the problem, meditated upon it, and then devised logical solutions. Only when he had established a clear set of possibilities did he turn to the books. He had been the balance to Galadriel’s intuition, and together, with the aid of instinct and intellect, they had been able to defend Lothlórien from both the minions of Dol Guldur and the darkness of Mordor.

But now all that had changed. Perhaps he was compensating for the fact that Galadriel was not beside him. Perhaps he had simply lived in Middle Earth for too long and had lost his sanity. Perhaps he had become too reliant upon Nenya in serving as a temporary wall against evil while he searched for a more conventional means of defying Sauron, and he sought to overcome that reliance by speeding up the process. Perhaps it was a combination of all these things, but whatever the case, Celeborn now found himself driven to search the records of history.

It was not as if he searched completely without a purpose or goal, though. He did have an inkling of what to look for, but it was little more than that. In truth, it was actually just a nagging feeling that this had happened before. The entire situation seemed painfully familiar, but for the life of him, the lord of Lothlórien could not fathom why. He did not remember encountering similar circumstances in the past, yet this strange feeling persisted and was most insistent that he had indeed come across this before. Sometime during the course of his long life—a live that spanned Ages—Celeborn had either been faced with these same circumstances or had been brought tidings concerning this. And with each passing moment this feeling neither diminished nor left him, leaving him to conclude that his instincts were right and that he must follow their promptings.

__

Yet how am I so certain when I cannot even remember the details regarding the event?! The Lord of Lothlórien rubbed his face and shook his head. Even if he was following an instinct, he was coming to the realization that he could not simply chase it as Galadriel might have. He would have to go about this his own way, and that required sifting through this strange feeling and discovering something of its source. _Very well, then. Let me first narrow the search. During what time might I have witnessed these events or heard of something similar taking place?_

Celeborn leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, his brow creased in thought as he began to tick off dates in his memory. _It would not have been during the Third Age; I believe that to be a safe assumption. There are enough elves about who would have also remembered if something similar to this had happened in the recent past. That leaves the Second Age, the First Age, and the years during the Ages of Stars._

Celeborn sighed, unused to working with vague hunches and uncertain guesses. _It was not during the Ages of Stars_ , he eventually decided. _It seems to me that Galadriel stood at my side when we faced either this situation or the tidings regarding this situation. Nor do I think it happened in the First Age._ Celeborn rubbed at his temples as intuition began to take hold again, and the Lord of Lothlórien decided to simply let his mind wander over the span of time until something started to click. It was a completely unprecedented move for him, but having watched Galadriel do something akin to this many times in the past, he decided it couldn’t hurt to at least make the attempt. _After the First Age, then. This leaves only the Second Age to search._

Celeborn shook his head and groaned within himself. _Only the Second Age? By the Valar, such a search may still take several lifetimes._ But there was naught to be done about it, and Celeborn was now getting the feeling that whatever he was trying to remember had indeed taken place during the Second Age. Once again, he could not pinpoint the origin of this feeling, but it refused to leave him alone. _Very well then, I shall search my memory of the Second Age_ , he acquiesced, wondering briefly where his sanity had gone. _The Second Age…would this have happened before or after our move into Eregion?_ Celeborn considered that for a moment. _It was after we settled Eregion_ , he decided. _There was much turmoil and upheaval in the beginning of the Second Age, but I do not think that circumstances such as these ever reached my knowledge. After Eregion, then. In fact, I believe this to have happened after Hollin and Celebrimbor…after Moria, too…after Tar-Minastir and the fleet of Númenórean ships… after Imladris was established as the new elven stronghold in Eriador…even after the first appearance of the Ringwraiths…_

Belfalas…

It was as if a voice had spoken to him, and Celeborn jerked his head up, half expecting to find that someone else had managed to enter the library and take him unawares. But he saw naught except for the top of Arwen’s head as she studied a new collection of scrolls that illustrated the founding of Eregion. Yet Celeborn was quite sure that he had not found the answer to his quandary himself.

__

I wonder…Hesitantly, with eyes narrowed in suspicion and the beginnings of a wild but desperate hope growing within his heart, he loosed his senses and allowed his mind to momentarily drift away from Middle Earth. And floating just beyond his reach in the ethereal world of elven dreams, he caught a flash of golden hair that would put to shame any metal crafted by man or dwarf. And to his ears came the sound of rich laughter that had been all too rare in Middle Earth.

__

Ah, Galadriel, he thought blissfully, returning to himself and slowly shaking his mind out of his daze. _Your spirit is always present in my heart, and I thank you for now gracing my dreams as well. Belfalas it is, then._

With no small amount of effort, Celeborn managed to take his thoughts away from his wife and turn them again to the problem at hand, feeling much better now that he had more of a concrete idea with which to work. He cycled his memory back to the latter half of the Second Age when he and Galadriel had left Rivendell and moved to Belfalas, settling an area that would eventually be known as Dol Amroth. What had happened during their stay there that might be likened to their current situation? After a moment of further meditation, Celeborn eliminated the possibility that his feeling of familiarity might stem from an event that had happened at Belfalas itself, which meant that he must have heard about something happening elsewhere.

__

What was Gil-galad doing in Lindon at this time? Nay, I think it was not he, for I just reviewed his personally history as recorded by Glorfindel, and I saw nothing in it that triggered my memory. What of Elrond in Rivendell, then? Or Amroth? Valar, for all I know, Oropher and Thranduil might have been playing with some shadow or another in the Misty Mountains. They always were doing something odd with the Orcs there. Or perhaps the darkness came not from them but from Moria, or Umbar, or Harad, or even Valinor! Perhaps it…

Celeborn suddenly stopped, blinking with sudden realization as pieces of the puzzle seemed to tumble into place. _Or even Valinor…_

He glanced down at the books before him, eyes narrowing as intuition hardened itself into something akin to certainty. With new resolve, the Lord of Lothlórien pushed most of the books aside and then selected a series of manuscripts that lay beside his chair. His guess was still only a guess, and it needed to be validated ere he would feel comfortable acting upon it. But it was a guess that made sense, and more than that, his instincts were crying out that here at last were the answers he sought. And that was enough for Celeborn. More research was required, more books would have to be sought, but it was a beginning. It was a start. And at this point in the game, that was all that mattered.

 

__

 

Author’s Notes: Me again, stopping in to explain something I used in this chapter as well as to answer a few questions that popped up concerning the last chapter. Ready? Here we go!

There seem to be as many stories concerning the lives of Galadriel and Celeborn as there are names for Aragorn. As such, I’ve gone with what seems to me to be the most plausible story of their background and run with it. My assumption is that Galadriel did not meet Celeborn until after the Age of Stars, lived in both Hollin and Rivendell, and settled Belfalas during the last years of Númenor. Hope that explains any vague references that Celeborn used.

Now on to the questions. The reference in Chapter 12 to Legolas’s only venture into an Orc cave has no basis in canon and is actually a reminder for me to include it in a story that’s been zinging around the back of my head lately. It will be some time before this story ever sees the light of day, but…yeah. That’s what where the reference came from. It’s a pre-LotR story that involves most of the characters on a very distant, detached basis. Odd and it’s going to give me trouble, but…right. That’s all about that.

Next, huge thanks for all the encouragement on the Arabic class. I’m happy to report that it’s done now, the class was taken partially because of school and partially because of my masochistic tendencies, and I now have an entirely new respect for all people attempting to learn a foreign language. Anyway, as soon as I recover some of my lost and scattered sanity, updates should begin to pick up. Give me a chance to unwind first, though.

As for what to call the Mouth of Sauron…in my outline I’ve been calling him Mouth. ;) It is VERY difficult to keep writing out "Mouth of Sauron." Somebody should have given that guy a name!

And that’s all for now. Once again, huge thanks for the reviews, the encouragement, the critiques, the questions, and the ability to wait while I slaughter myself in an Arabic class. Hope you enjoy this chapter!


	14. A Fine Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, HUGE thanks go out to all the reviewers, but this time I would like to highlight a few special thanks. One goes out to Jocelyn for her nominations. Another goes out to Ithilien, who keeps me going on this story by sheer enthusiasm alone. I dont think this chapter would have been done this quickly without her help. Also Mari, who now returns to the review boards with the usual novel-length reviews that are SO helpful. Ive missed you! Also to Nimue, who has revealed that the Mouth of Saurons real name is actually Ted. ;) And finally, Elaine, who dissects every story and sends her comments to me via email.

Merry wondered how long he and Legolas had been wandering. The cave system they navigated—or tried to navigate—might easily pass as a giant labyrinth with the ability to confound and confuse even a stout dwarf like Gimli, to say nothing of a hobbit from the Shire and an elf from the forests. During one of their few hushed conversations, Legolas had even admitted to Merry that they’d traced two complete circles immediately following their initial venture out of the cell, but the hobbit had no idea how Legolas had been able to tell. To him, all the cave walls were beginning to look the same, and the only difference from one area to the next was the different dance of the fire in the wall sconces. Yet Legolas had assured Merry that he was mentally mapping their course and now had a fairly good idea of the cave’s layout around their prison cell. For the last hour or so—the hobbit had begun to lose track of time as everything continued to look the same—the elf had promised him that they were making significant progress.

__

Which means what? Merry wondered, watching Legolas wearily as the elf slid cautiously around a corner and checked to see if there were guards about. Since leaving their cell, neither elf nor hobbit had seen or heard any sign of Orcs or the Mouth of Sauron, and this was beginning to set Merry on edge. Legolas might believe that they were making significant progress, but what if they were only significantly progressing their way straight into a trap? _I suppose the fact that we’re walking into it with our eyes open is something_ , Merry decided. _But a trap is still a trap, and I don’t want to be put back in that cell again._

A light touch on the hobbit’s shoulder drew his attention back to the present, and he looked up as Legolas nodded slightly, the signal that meant the way was clear for now. But watching the elf closely, Merry was beginning to detect a vague uneasiness in the prince’s gray eyes. It had taken quite a while to notice it, but as they continued to travel and also continued to meet no resistance, Merry became more and more certain that Legolas even more unnerved by this than he was. Their listening stops had become longer and more frequent, turning corners was becoming a far more cautious process, and the elf’s hands kept straying to his back as though searching for his bow and quiver. These were interesting signs that Merry had noticed over the course of their wanderings, and he found them to be a series of fascinating insights into the elf’s mind. But this was neither the time nor the place to be musing about such things, and the hobbit firmly shook his head free of superfluous thoughts as he followed Legolas into their new hallway.

At last, Merry saw definitive signs of change. There was no doubt in his mind that this was new and promising territory. Countless smaller tunnels branched away from this particular hall, and the hall itself was half again as wide as all their previous tunnels. There were also more torches lining the walls, and the arch of the ceiling overhead was so high as to be beyond the light of the flames. Merry looked hopefully at Legolas, and the elf nodded in response, though his eyes were cautious. Dropping down to one knee, he beckoned Merry close and leaned over to whisper quietly in the hobbit’s ear.

"If my reckoning is correct—and I pray that it is—we are not far from the entrance of these foul caves. This tunnel appears to be a main thoroughfare, and it should take us outside. But here we must be especially cautious. I know not why we have met with no guard, and I fear what they may have in store for us. Yet whatever the consequences be, we can ill afford to ignore any chance of escape."

"We’ll make it through," Merry hissed back, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. A strange reluctance was coming over him at the prospect of braving this corridor, but he knew not from whence this feeling came.

"Together," Legolas promised, placing a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder and squeezing quickly. "Together we shall flee this place."

Merry nodded and the elf smiled, but the smile did not exactly transmit confidence. To the hobbit’s observant eyes, it seemed strained and forced as though the elf was wearing a mask to cover his true feelings. At this thought, Merry’s hope began to die, but he mustered his brightest return smile and Legolas seemed satisfied. Rising, the elf turned and they began inching their way down the hall.

By now, Merry was used to the tedious process that Legolas had insisted they use while traversing these dark caves, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. Though he easily understood the reasoning behind their extreme caution, it was still a frustrating procedure. Elf and hobbit would walk forward for a few minutes and then pause to listen. This took another minute or so and then they would move again. Whenever they came to an off-shooting tunnel, they would stop until Legolas was certain that the way was clear. They moved quickly when they did move, but the periods of waiting seemed to stretch so long that Merry occasionally wondered if they were truly moving anywhere at all. At this rate, it might well take them several years to find the entrance.

So lost in thought was the hobbit that he didn’t see Legolas stop in front of him, and he ran full into the back of the elf. Staggering backwards with a slight grunt, he was about to send the prince a dark glare when a hand clapped over his mouth and he was shoved up against the wall.

"Do not make a sound," Legolas breathed, his voice so quiet that Merry could barely make out the words. Not daring to even move, the hobbit held completely still, wondering what could have triggered the elf’s acute senses. Legolas still had him pinned to the wall and his hand had not released the hobbit’s mouth, but Merry didn’t struggle. After a long minute of waiting, Legolas relaxed marginally and let the hobbit down.

"What happened?" Merry asked, making his voice as soft and quiet as possible.

"We are not alone," Legolas whispered, his large, gray eyes searching the caverns around them. "We are being watched."

"Orcs?" Merry wondered fearfully, his own eyes wide as he tried to pierce the tunnel’s dark shadows.

"I know not, though I suspect it is so. In any case, the watchers hold naught but malice for us. And yet our progress is unhindered. They are content merely to watch." Legolas fell silent, his eyes narrow and his jaw tight. "I like this not, Merry," he murmured at length. "They have planned something, and by pursuing our course, we but oblige them."

"But what else can we do?"

"Naught, but we must further increase our caution. Something dark and fell is intended, and we are to be the unfortunate recipients."

Merry could have easily figured that out on his own—in fact, he already had—but he didn’t tell Legolas that. The elf was on pins and needles, and the hobbit felt a flash of pity for him. The fact that they were still in the caves couldn’t be helping, and Legolas seemed to be far more sensitive to this darkness than his hobbit companion was. "So what happens next?" Merry asked. "Can we lose them?"

The elf grimaced and slowly shook his head. "I know not how to lose them when I know not who or what observes us. But we cannot tarry here, that much is certain." Legolas lifted his head and closed his eyes, holding perfectly still for some time, and Merry began to wonder if Legolas had forgotten what he’d just said about not tarrying. But just before the hobbit could remind him of his words, Legolas opened his eyes and turned. "I smell fresh air."

"Fresh air?" Merry echoed hopefully. "That means we’re close. We’re very close."

"Hush," Legolas hissed, suddenly moving into a crouch. "The enemy is drawing closer. I feel him, yet I cannot see him." The prince’s eyes narrowed, and his breathing seemed to become rapid. "I fear, Merry, that we have exhausted what time we may have been given."

"Then let’s go!" Merry urged. "Let’s move out before they move in."

The elf sighed and shook his head. "It may already be too late, but we must take what chances fate and fortune grant us. Come, Merry. Run!"

Legolas took off down the corridor, caution now thrown to the wind. Rather surprised with this abrupt change in tactics, Merry’s heart began to sink even as he raced after the elf’s fleeting form. If Legolas saw no more use for caution, they were in trouble. But at the same time, Merry realized there was nothing he could do about it, and so he pumped his legs faster and tried to keep up.

Skidding around a corner, a shaft of sunlight suddenly caught Merry’s eyes and hope flared brightly within him. It was day outside! They might still be able to escape! Tears of joy filled his eyes, and at that moment, the hobbit decided he had never seen anything more beautiful than the beams of sunlight shining through the entrance to the caves. His eyes could not see anything beyond the cave itself as the light was too bright for that, but he could see the light and that was enough. With a sob of relief, he surged forward, almost stumbling in his haste to escape the caverns of the Orcs.

But his joy was short-lived, for not more than a few seconds after seeing the light of the outside world, a sudden wave of fear and nausea swept through the hobbit. He stumbled and fell, recoiling from the brightness of day as darkness swept over his mind and forced him back. He heard Legolas cry out and curse bitterly, but Merry didn’t have time to worry about the elf or even answer him. He was facing a realm of shadows within his own mind, and he was losing the battle to maintain control. Where had this sudden darkness come from?! His thoughts had been his own a moment ago, yet now…

With a pitiful whimper, Merry tried to force himself forward toward the light, but his body refused to respond. Phantom pain beat down upon him as the darkness called to mind the now-healed tortures of the Orcs, and a strange fear of leaving the cave and betraying the darkness caused the hobbit to cower back against the wall.

"Legolas?" he hissed, clutching at his head as throbbing agony exploded behind his eyes.

"Run, Merry! By the Valar, run!"

The hobbit managed to look over at the elf, who was sprawled on the floor much as the hobbit was. "What is happening to us? Why can’t we leave?"

"Try. You must try," Legolas growled, pushing himself off the ground and turning his head toward the sunlight. But even as he did so, he cried out and shuddered, sinking back and covering his eyes.

"A worthy attempt, my friends. A very worthy attempt. But alas, it was ultimately doomed to fail."

Merry froze, his heart nearly stopping as he recognized that voice. Raising his eyes, he shivered as he looked into the madness of the soul now known as the Mouth of Sauron. He tried to speak, to spit, to scream, to run, to do anything! But his traitorous body seemed unable to respond, and he lay there helpless before the man who was no longer quite a man.

"What did you do?" Legolas rasped as he struggled to move away from the creature of darkness.

"I? I did nothing. It was you who did it, elfling," the man answered, his voice quiet and far too confident for Merry’s liking. "It was you who invited the darkness into your soul. You allowed it to heal you. You gave it space in your mind for it to right what your brethren the Orcs set wrong."

"Shadows have no claim over me," Legolas declared harshly, making one final attempt to lunge forward but falling heavily to the ground as soon as he raised himself off the floor.

"Don’t they? We shall see. Oh yes, we shall soon see. Now, let us return you and your small friend to the deeper caverns where the light of day shall not torment you so. I have many more lessons yet to teach you, and time presses on."

With a last desperate effort, Merry threw himself forward, hoping to somehow flee this place. But even as he moved, his legs collapsed beneath him and his mind screamed in terror at the darkness that threatened to consume him should he take one more step. Crying out in frustration, Merry beat his fist upon the ground, desperate for the will to move, but it did not come. Instead, he felt the cold hands of Orcs upon his arms, and he was lifted into the air and turned around. The light of day faded behind him and with it faded the hope in his heart. Before long, all was darkness.

* * * *

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And I believed that keeping all the councilors in Minas Tirith happy was a chore, Aragorn sighed. The king of Gondor was straddling the limb of a large tree while bracing Elladan’s head and shoulders. At the same time, Elladan’s twin was driving himself mad with worry. It was a rather unique situation, and had the circumstances been different, Aragorn might have found it vastly amusing.

Shortly following the Orcs’ retreat, Elladan had collapsed and the elves had pulled him up into the trees. Trailing after them, Aragorn had attempted to rouse his foster brother but had met with no success. Neither had he met with any success as far as his efforts went to calm Elrohir. To add to the problem, Gimli was still on the ground and demanding that they continue to follow the trail of the Orcs. Interestingly enough, these demands were being echoed by Thranduil, though both the king of Mirkwood and the dwarf refused to acknowledge that at the moment they were of very similar minds.

But fortunately for Aragorn, Thranduil and Gimli seemed to have disappeared for the time being, leaving the king of Gondor alone with the twins. Aragorn wasn’t sure where the two had gone, but so long as there were no sounds of battle, he could safely assume that Thranduil and Gimli had parted ways and were not seeking to kill one another. That was one less thing for Aragorn to worry about, but this brief reprieve was beginning to seem like less and less of a blessing as Elrohir became more and more of a problem. The anxious son of Elrond was turning into a difficulty bigger than the one presented by having both Gimli and Thranduil on the same search team.

"Elrohir, leave off your pacing!" Aragorn finally exclaimed, unable to take any more brotherly worry. He held the same fear himself, but he was not allowing it to drive him from branch to branch in a most unseemly display of impatience. Elves did not pace, and Elrohir’s visible anxiety was only escalating the feeling of fear and uncertainty in Aragorn.

Looking up when his name was called, Elrohir blinked, glanced about in confusion as though unaware that he had been pacing, and eventually sighed. "My apologies, Estel. I fear I am not currently myself."

"Understandable," Aragorn answered, biting back a rather scathing retort with effort. "But please try to contain your pacing to a single branch, or even two if one will not serve."

"I shall try to cease pacing altogether," Elrohir promised, moving behind Aragorn and bending over the king so as to better inspect his twin brother. "How does he fare?"

"I believe he shall regain consciousness soon, for he seems to be stirring slightly. But as for what consciousness means, I cannot say. His collapse was sudden, though not entirely unexpected. He was showing signs of this even before the Orcs attacked."

"My brother always was too perceptive for his own good," Elrohir sighed. "I fear such a close study of the shadow upon the ground was more than he could bear." The half-elf fell silent, but he remained a steady presence over Aragorn’s shoulder. Aragorn wondered if this was an improvement over the pacing.

"Perhaps you should speak with your captains," the king suggested at length. "Mayhap they have some insight into the battle that we have not considered."

"And by that, you mean I should leave you alone and find something that will occupy my time," Elrohir retorted. "I am not a fool, Estel. I can see through your words, and beyond that, I know you too well for you to lie to me."

"Then if you know me as well as you say, you will also know that I am uncomfortable with you hovering over my shoulder. Allow me some room to breathe, and show your brother the same courtesy!"

Elrohir made a sound that could have been a laugh and stepped back, hopping onto a limb above Aragorn and moving until he was directly over Elladan. "Once again, my apologies. I realize that I am being difficult, yet I know not what else to do. I have already spoken to the captains, we cannot follow the trail until Elladan recovers or you leave off tending him, and Gimli and Thranduil have disappeared which means no one must act as a buffer between them. I have nothing to occupy my time."

"I understand your problem," Aragorn answered. "But that still gives you no pressing cause to stare over my shoulder at your brother."

"I am no longer staring over your shoulder at my brother," Elrohir said. "I trust this position will be suitable for you?"

"So long as you do not start pacing again."

Elrohir smiled and nodded, turning his eyes to Elladan’s face and watching his brother closely. "This alters the situation, Estel," he said after a quiet minute or two. "Given the effects of the darkness upon Elladan, he cannot be allowed to stay here for any great length of time. And I doubt that we can allow him to merely watch the search from the trees, for you know that he will wish to involve himself in whatever goes forth upon the ground."

"You speak truly, Elrohir," Aragorn sighed, having already considered the problem. "I fear our only viable option is to send him back to Rivendell. How that is to be accomplished, though, is something I cannot fathom. He will not go willingly."

"Then let us give him greater excuse to take his leave," Elrohir suggested. "Not all are necessary upon this search, even if the Orcs attack again. We suffered no casualties from the last assault and can easily spare some of the scouts and guards. Let us say that we are establishing a search rotation. Some shall retire and spend the night in Rivendell while others continue the hunt. Then the two parties shall make an exchange come morning. In this way, Estel, even you might find sleep, for having received rest, Elladan should be able to trail the Orcs for a time without suffering too greatly and you may retire."

"A good idea," Aragorn said, nodding thoughtfully. "But whom shall we send back to Rivendell? None here will wish to go."

"If nothing else, I suggest we separate Gimli and Thranduil," Elrohir said, lowering his voice and glancing about the trees for the king of Mirkwood. "We can ill afford to have both of them in the party. If they are not attacking one another, they are raising the tension within the group. They are too close to the situation for objective thought, and though they are more than entitled to participate in the search, it would be safer if they did so separately."

"And for those same reasons, the hobbits should also be sent back," Aragorn added. "Or Pippin, at least, and Sam has his family to think of. But I am curious, Elrohir, as to how we shall convince either Thranduil or Gimli that they need to retire and return to Rivendell for the night."

"Ah, but _we_ shall not be doing the convincing. That task falls to _you_ , dear brother."

Aragorn blinked and stared at the half-elf. "Somewhere in the course of this conversation, I believe you have left me behind. Explain to me why I shall be the one doing the convincing."

"Because I shall be focusing my arguments on Elladan. You are then tasked with selecting others to accompany him. Elves and your own men are easy enough, for they are at our command. But Gimli, Pippin, and Sam…that is another matter. And if I were you, Estel, I would not speak to Thranduil concerning this. I do not think he likes you."

Aragorn rolled his eyes and shook his head. "My thanks for the insight. I might never have discovered that on my own."

"You are welcome, of course."

Aragorn’s ensuing search for a suitable response to Elrohir’s elven smugness was interrupted by a groan from Elladan as he started to stir. Bending over his foster brother, Aragorn lightly patted his cheek and called to him. "Elladan? Elladan, it is time to wake."

Elladan murmured something too quiet for even elven ears and began to move restlessly, prompting Aragorn to capture his arms while Elrohir jumped down and took hold of his feet lest their brother fall from the tree.

"Elladan!" Elrohir called. "Come, my brother, open your eyes. The darkness is below you now. You need not fear it."

With another groan, Elladan ceased his struggles and the lids of his eyes began to flutter. After a breathless moment, bright, blue eyes opened and the oldest son of Elrond glanced about. Aragorn released his grip on Elladan’s arms, though he kept one hand on his shoulder should his support be needed. Elrohir moved back and watched intently, waiting for a sign that his brother was well.

"What happened?" Elladan eventually asked, blinking rapidly as though trying to clear his vision.

"We were beset by Orcs and then you collapsed," Aragorn answered gently. "Do you remember aught?"

"I…I remember the Orcs," Elladan murmured, closing his eyes. "And then the darkness seemed to grow. There were whispers of…of turning back and shunning the light of day. Whispers of how one could not leave the caverns."

Elrohir frowned and looked questioningly at Aragorn, but the king of Gondor could only shrug in response. With a slight grimace of concern, Elrohir leaped onto a branch above and indicated that Aragorn should move back. With a nod, Aragorn obliged and eased away from Elladan, enabling Elrohir to leap down directly behind his brother.

"Come, Elladan, let us see if you can stand. And then there are things about which we must speak. Estel and I have discussed the possibility of a rotation for the searchers."

Seeing that he was no longer needed, Aragorn turned around and moved to the trunk of the tree, climbing down it cautiously. Much of his childhood had been spent in the trees of Imladris, but even with this to back him, Aragorn had not an elf’s skill in the heights and care was required. He had fallen too many times and endured too many jibes from watching elves to not know that.

At length he was back on the ground, and he winced as the shadows swirled to greet him. He’d heard Orophin offer to take the hobbits and Gimli up into the trees while they regrouped after the attack, but Gimli had refused while Merry and Pippin elected to stay with the dwarf for the time being. Aragorn supposed such a thing was only to be expected. Even Legolas had never managed to coax Gimli into a tree after they’d left Lórien, though certainly not for want of trying.

"Are we ready to move forward again?"

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Speaking of Gimli… Aragorn closed his eyes, attempted to achieve a state of mind that would be conducive to persuasion, and eventually gave up when the darkness around him continued to cloud his thoughts. Deciding he would have to do without, he turned to the dwarf and braced himself. "Soon, my friend, but I fear that not all of us shall be moving forward together."

"An advance party," Gimli said with an immediate nod, his eyes flashing with fury. "I shall join. Let the Orcs who attacked our group know the fury of a dwarven axe. There shall be none of them left to weary and slow our search."

"No, we are not sending out an advance party," Aragorn said, glancing around for the hobbits. Spotting them a few yards away, he beckoned them over and wondered if Elrohir would trade duties with him. It might be easier after all to convince Elladan to go back than it would be to convince Gimli.

"How is Elladan?" Sam asked.

"He is recovering, but I fear the darkness is taking a great toll upon his mind. His time spent in it while striving to understand and comprehend its secrets has dealt him a grievous blow, and he must be sent back to Rivendell for a bit so that he might recover. Elrohir and I believe he should stay the night and then return in the morning, relieving myself and those with me. In this way, we will be better rested when we come upon the lair of these foul creatures."

As he had spoken, Aragorn’s eyes had kept straying to Gimli’s face, watching for signs of a reaction. And Gimli had not failed to give him one. The dwarf’s eyes were hard as steel, his face was tinged with red as fury began to build within him, and his hands were clenched so tightly around the haft of his axe that his knuckles had turned white. "I am not going back."

"You want us to go back?" Pippin suddenly questioned, looking as though the conversation had escaped him entirely. "But you just said that Elladan was the one who needed to rest."

"We all need to rest, Pippin," Aragorn explained. "The search cannot be abandoned and we must be ready to repel any further attacks, but I do not think we are near the Orcs’ lair yet, for it would be folly for them to linger so close to Rivendell even with this cloak of darkness to protect them. As such, we do not need our full force in attendance, for we are not likely to encounter any group of enemies greater than the one we so recently defeated. And since not all of us are needed here, it seems only prudent that some should seek rest while it can be obtained."

"I am not going back," Gimli repeated, his voice hard and uncompromising.

"Elladan needs to return," Aragorn continued, ignoring Gimli for the moment and focusing his words on the hobbits in the hopes that they might understand. "Half of the elves shall return with him. I will stay to follow the trail, and Elrohir will stay to command the forces along with Thranduil. You three, on the other hand, should return to Rivendell for the night and then join me again in the morning."

"You may command the forces of Gondor, Aragorn, but you do not command me," Gimli growled. The dwarf was visibly livid with the idea that he might abandon the search for Legolas and Merry, and his face was turning a rather strange shade of red. Not that Aragorn blamed him, for he knew his own reluctance would probably get in the way come morning when Elladan returned. With a shake of his head, the king of Gondor sighed and turned his attention back to Gimli, attempting to gather rationale that the dwarf would understand.

"If you do not rest now, Master Dwarf, then you will need rest later. And later may be the time when Legolas’s escape is at hand. I would not have you—"

"I will take my own counsel in matters relating to my health," the dwarf snapped. "And I say that I am perfectly capable of continuing the search."

"Gimli, I implore you not to argue this," Aragorn sighed. "It is doubtful that we shall get far tonight, and a weary axe is no weapon against evil. We will need you rested. And if you require further reasons, my friend, tempers are running high. Your presence is not helping, particularly where a certain elven king is concerned."

"If the elves cannot tolerate the presence of a dwarf, that is not my concern. I have allowed for their inadequacies throughout this search, and I see no reason why they cannot make room for a dwarf who is ready to avenge the capture of his friends."

"Gimli!" Aragorn said sharply with a glance upward to see which elven ears might be hearkening to this conversation. "Gimli, listen to me very carefully. You are not needed here. And not only are you not needed but you make the situation worse. It is difficult enough to follow a trail hidden by darkness. We do not need the distractions that dissension and internal arguments will provide."

A tense silence fell, and king and dwarf stared at one another for several long minutes, striving for a dominance of wills and finding that neither could gain against the other. Aragorn dimly sensed Pippin and Sam backing away as though fearful of being caught in a fight. _And perhaps they are not wrong to fear such a fight, for Gimli’s hands are upon his axe and I seem to be clutching Andúril_ , Aragorn realized, wondering if the darkness that swirled about them might not be responsible for this sudden breakdown in a rather strong friendship. With effort, the king released his sword and forced himself to relax his stance, watching Gimli closely and challenging the dwarf to do the same.

Fortunately for Aragorn, the gamble paid off. Gimli suddenly blinked and passed a hand over his eyes as though waking from a deep sleep. His axe clattered to the ground where it was immediately seized upon by tendrils of darkness and hidden from sight. Gimli and Aragorn watched together with a mixture of fascination and horror as the cloud appeared to become violent as though it was angry. For a moment it seemed that it had formed into something tangible and solid, capable of dealing physical blows. And then it dissipated, returning to its former state.

"My apologies," Gimli murmured, starting to bend over and retrieve the axe but hesitating before his hand could submerge itself in the darkness. "I had not realized the danger."

"You see now?" Aragorn questioned gently, still rattled by the incident. "Valar, even I am affected. This is why we must begin to rotate the searchers. It would be folly if we were to all stay."

"I do not wish to abandon the hunt," Gimli muttered, but his voice was now uncertain.

"None do," Aragorn assured him. "And you do not abandon the hunt, for others carry on in your absence. You merely take a much needed break and return refreshed with your strength ready should it be needed. Gimli, you can better help Legolas by resting now. We will not find him tonight, nor is it likely that we shall find him tomorrow. The search goes too slowly for that, and my heart tells me that the lair of these foul creatures is still far away. Rest, son of Glóin. And if you do it not for yourself, then do it for your friends."

There was a long silence during which Gimli looked away out into the darkness. Aragorn waited tensely, hoping that his words could convince the stubborn dwarf and wondering if Elrohir was finding Elladan to be this difficult.

At length, Gimli shuddered and nodded slightly. "If you counsel rest, far be it from me to dispute your wisdom," the dwarf said quietly.

Aragorn snorted. "You have disputed my wisdom often in the past, Master Dwarf."

"The council of a man is sometimes strange to the mind of a dwarf," Gimli answered with a shrug and a slight smile. Bending over, he hastily retrieved his axe and straightened quickly. "When do we depart back to Rivendell?"

"Now wait a minute," Pippin interrupted. "You might be going back, but that doesn’t mean that I am."

Aragorn released a silent groan and turned to the hobbit. He had expected problems with Gimli, but he hadn’t expected Pippin to also refuse returning. "As a knight of Gondor, Peregrin Took, you are technically bound to—"

"Don’t!" Pippin interrupted, his eyes flashing. "Don’t even think about ordering me back. Even you can’t do that. Merry needs me and I—"

"Merry needs you with your wits intact, or as intact as they ever are," Sam broke in unexpectedly. "I’m going back to see Rosie and make sure all is well with her. You’re going back to make sure you don’t crack like a nut."

Pippin blinked and Gimli stepped to his side, placing a hand on the young hobbit’s shoulder. "If I can take a moment to rest, you can also take a moment," the dwarf said. "And we will return at dawn to continue the hunt. Tomorrow will be soon enough for us, my friend."

Pippin’s face went through a variety of expressions, most of which Aragorn couldn’t even begin to decipher, and then the hobbit nodded reluctantly. "Just for tonight, though," he said. "And only because we’re still so far away. But this search better get faster or you’ll all have to answer to me."

At any other time, the hobbit’s statement might have been highly amusing. But at the moment, with the situation what it was, Aragorn saw no humor and he solemnly nodded in answer to Pippin’s threat. "I shall do everything in my power to see that Merry and Legolas are found quickly. Have no fear of that, Master Peregrin. They are my friends as well."

"I know," Pippin sighed. "And I’m sorry, but—"

"Peace," Aragorn assured him. "All is forgiven." The king of Gondor flashed the hobbit a reassuring smile and then stepped back, glancing once into the trees. "Gather what things you brought with you and prepare to depart. You shall start back once Elladan is able to travel."

"He is able now," a voice called down, and Elrohir dropped into view, followed by Elladan, who looked less than pleased at this turn of events. "I have also divided the elven forces and spoken briefly with King Thranduil. Those that were selected to return are prepared." Elrohir then looked expectantly at Elladan, who sighed and shook his head.

"This goes against the yearnings of my heart," he muttered. "But since it seems you have all conspired against me, I have little choice. Take care, Estel. This darkness affects even you."

"I shall watch myself," Aragorn promised.

"And I shall also watch him," Elrohir added. "Now, it is time for you to take your leave of us, brother. Or must I escort you back into safer lands?"

Elladan glared at his twin, but there was weary acceptance in his face and he quickly turned away. "Come," he said, addressing his words to elves in the trees as well as Gimli, Pippin, and Sam upon the ground. "I wish to make the Ford by nightfall and so ensure that this foolish division serves at least some purpose."

"I think you had the more difficult task," Aragorn murmured to Elrohir as the company moved off, with Elladan staying low enough in the trees that Gimli, Pippin, and Sam could follow his movements.

"The decision was ill to receive, but I overheard part of your discussion and I would dispute that observation," Elrohir returned, leaping out of the tree so that he stood next to his foster brother. "Elladan is stubborn, but I believe Gimli is worse."

"To say nothing of Pippin," Aragorn added.

A clearing throat above caught their attention, and both looked up as the stately form of King Thranduil revealed itself. "Are we prepared yet to continue the search, Elrohir?"

Elrohir sighed and looked over at Aragorn. Aragorn nodded slightly and turned away, moving toward the area where they had last sensed the trail. He could hear Elrohir answering the king of Mirkwood, but he blocked their voices from his mind. Thranduil was not going to be pleased that their search now relied almost exclusively on Aragorn’s judgement. But Elrohir was reluctant to drop his mental shields and expose himself to the darkness as was necessary to do in order to sense the trail, and all other elves felt likewise. Aragorn and Elladan had been alone in tracking the Orcs, and now it was solely up to Aragorn. _Perhaps now is the time to show Thranduil the worth of a mortal_ , Aragorn mused quietly, placing a hand upon a tree and preparing to brace himself. _Or perhaps now is simply a time to ignore him._ And with this final thought, Aragorn cleared his mind and lowered the guards that had been in place ever since he was a child in Rivendell.

Shadows and evil, as tangible as any physical shape, swept toward him and Aragorn stood his mental ground, preparing for their attack. This task did not become easier as time went on, but at least it became more of a routine and the initial fear in facing such darkness had died away. Aragorn grunted as the first wave of shadow slammed into his mind, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he willed it to part around him, separating the darkness much as the darkness wished to separate him. This was not unlike the battle he had fought with Sauron over the _palantír_ , but fortunately the evil he now faced was not quite as focused as Sauron’s powers had been. It was for this reason and this reason alone that Aragorn was able to stand against it time and time again.

The second wave of shadow had now reached him, and he parted it as he had done with the first wave, sweeping it away from his mind. Before the third wave could gather itself together for another attack, Aragorn reached within himself and willed the might of Númenor and the powers of his lineage to strike first, creating a light in the darkness where before there had been none. And for a brief moment, ere the shadows could coalesce and obscure reality, the trail of the Orcs became visible.

Slamming his shields up again and shutting himself off from the mists of darkness, Aragorn took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

"Estel?"

Aragorn nodded slightly and felt himself braced by strong hands as Elrohir moved to better support him. "Southeast," he murmured, turning his head in the direction of the Orc’s trail. "For perhaps two miles, it runs straight with no sign of turning. We may follow it that far before checking it again."

"I will send the other elves ahead while you recover," Elrohir answered. "Will you be able to endure this on your own for the rest of the night?"

"I must," Aragorn sighed, rubbing his head. "What other choice have we?"

"None, but we need not move so quickly if you have need of rest."

"I may have need of rest, but what needs press upon Legolas and Merry? Nay, Elrohir, their plight is far worse than mine shall ever be. We must make haste, or I fear it will be too late."

"Then lean upon me, Estel, if you insist on this course," Elrohir ordered, pulling Aragorn’s arm over his broad shoulders and locking his own arm around the king’s waist. Too tired to put up a sustained protest and knowing he would need all of his resources for the next confrontation with the darkness, Aragorn reluctantly allowed Elrohir’s assistance. Thus together, half-elf and king, they moved forward through clinging shadows as night drew its cover over all.

 

 

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Author’s Notes: Once again, HUGE thanks go out to all the reviewers, but this time I would like to highlight a few special thanks. One goes out to Jocelyn for her nominations. Another goes out to Ithilien, who keeps me going on this story by sheer enthusiasm alone. I don’t think this chapter would have been done this quickly without her help. Also Mari, who now returns to the review boards with the usual novel-length reviews that are SO helpful. I’ve missed you! Also to Nimue, who has revealed that the Mouth of Sauron’s real name is actually Ted. ;) And finally, Elaine, who dissects every story and sends her comments to me via email.

And thanks go out to everyone else. I wish I had time to respond to each of you personally, but sadly, that’s just not possible. Anyway, thanks again and I hope you enjoy this latest chapter!!!

Also, for those wondering, "Fear No Darkness" happens five years after the War of the Ring, while "Land of Light and Shadows" takes place seven years after it. And the two stories are loosely joined, something that will become more evident in later chapters. But reading one is by no means a requirement for reading the other!


	15. The Shadows Deepen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems that the Mouth of Sauron is getting more names than Aragorn. And they all had me laughing, so I thought Id share. Liz D. was informed that Mr. Mouth once introduced himself by saying, "There are those who call meTim?" Not fully content with this theory, Liz has also pointed out that Bob would be a nice, neutral name. On the other hand, Gimli der Zwerg firmly believes that Mr. Mouths name is Edward "Ted" Crilly. Personally, I like Patches, but I think that Ted is a more dangerous-sounding name. Have to credit Nimue with that one.

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Before doing anything else, I’d like to dedicate this chapter to Dwimordene, who gave me some wonderful insight into the relationship between Celeborn and Arwen. However, in the process of writing their section, I think some of her beautiful ideas became…muddled. So my apologies to her if this is the case. But I am still VERY grateful for the assistance and hope I haven’t brutally destroyed her insights too much.

 

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Chapter 15: The Shadows Deepen

Arwen rubbed her eyes and leaned back in her chair with a weary sigh. Whoever had taken the trouble to detail each and every facet of history within memory of the oldest elves had possessed no talent for either storytelling or writing. Unfortunately, there did seem to be a plethora of talent for turning the reasonably interesting tale of Círdan and the founding of Mithlond into a history so boring that even the most studious of wizards might shrink from reading it. Arwen almost suspected that an Ent had penned the words she now read, and the daughter of Elrond wondered how this particular volume of history had survived without being torn apart and burned by desperately bored readers. Not even the endless council meetings of Minas Tirith compared to this.

"Remind me again what our purpose here is," Arwen muttered, brushing an errant strand of hair out of her eyes.

"You see now what your father was forced to endure when the Enemy pressed near," Celeborn said with something that might have been taken as a quiet laugh. "Think you that Imladris was defended by the strength of your brothers and those who had beheld the light of Valinor? Not even an army consisting of Glorfindel and all his kindred could have held the forces of Mordor at bay had your father not been constantly seeking for new ways to thwart Sauron."

"I know that well, Lord Celeborn," Arwen sighed. "Many were the sleepless nights that my father spent in this library, and at times I spent them with him, seeking to aid in whatever way I could. Yet in those instances, the purpose was clear and the goal was set. Here, I know not for what I search, and I fear that in skimming these passages, I shall miss some vital detail that you might covet."

Celeborn was quiet for a moment, and then he spoke again, his voice somewhat hesitant. "If it aids you in any way, you might focus your readings around the time of Númenor. In particular, I am currently interested in the rule of Ar-Pharazôn and the corruption of Númenor’s nobility."

"Thranduil would have a ready explanation for their corruption," Arwen murmured, returning to her book and flipping through several hundred pages before finding the chapters devoted to Númenor.

"He does, actually, and I have been forced to listen to it on several occasions," Celeborn remarked with an undercurrent of amusement to his voice. "The son of Oropher never ceases to amaze me with his leaps of logic and his complete acceptance of rumors involving the disgrace and the fall of men. I must admit, though, that Thranduil’s oldest son, Celebas, does a most humorous impression of his father’s diatribe on the fall of Númenor."

Arwen laughed and shook her head. "I have seen Prince Celebas do this. I might add that Legolas does a very good impression of Thranduil ranting about the dwarves. Gimli is also quite adept at responding to this by giving his own father’s opinion of the elves."

"I shall have to ask the dwarf to perform that, for I would be interested to see if Glóin’s opinion of our people has changed since his son became an elf-friend."

"It has not changed much," Arwen said, turning a dusty page and coughing slightly. "And I gather from conversations with Legolas that Gimli has become somewhat estranged from his father over their friendship. From what Legolas has managed to glean, and that is little enough since the dwarf is not disposed to speak of it, Gimli’s return to the Lonely Mountain after the War of the Ring was a rather awkward return for all involved. He was met with much celebration and honor, but there was very little in the way of welcome from those who mattered most to the dwarf."

Celeborn sighed and shook his head, though his eyes never strayed from the scroll he was currently reading. "Alas that such friendship should be met with such scorn. I had hoped it might serve as a bridge between elves and dwarves. Perhaps we might have mended old hatreds ere all the elves fled Middle Earth. But perhaps such things are only a fool’s dream, and the elves will depart with animosity still running between us and the children of Aulë. And it seems to me that the word children could also be used to describe the elves, for in this petty feud we are all children."

The lord of Lothlórien fell into a thoughtful silence and Arwen sensed that the time for idle talk had passed. With a weary shake of her head, Elrond’s daughter turned her eyes back to the endless stream of writing that tracked the gradual corruption of Númenor’s last king, Ar-Pharazôn. The account was based on records left by Elendil and written by someone who had apparently never be forced to read his own work. It was dry enough to make Harad look like an ocean of water. Forcing herself to read, Arwen tried valiantly to remained focused, but her mortal body began making demands for sleep and rest. Her elven spirit revolted at this, but a heaviness was descending upon her mind and she wondered how long she would be able to last.

"Perhaps you were right," Celeborn suddenly said, his voice low and scarce to be heard. "Mayhap this is foolishness."

Arwen looked up in surprise and frowned. She had never heard her grandfather sound so despondent and wondered at the sudden change. "A moment ago you seemed to think that studying Númenor would help. Has that now changed?"

"Nay," he murmured. "It is still my best guess, and yet…I thought I remembered something, but I have found nothing to corroborate my theory. And time drags on." He turned away and shook his head. "If we do not find answers soon…"

"My lord, you were determined and filled with purpose not more than an hour ago," Arwen said, watching Celeborn carefully. "What has happened to alter this?"

The silver-haired elf glanced down at the scroll before him and smiled mirthlessly. "Perhaps I am merely caught in memories. In just a short time I have gone over the history of the Ages as I remember them, and in remembering, I am reminded of those who stood with me. Gil-galad, Celebrimbor, Glorfindel, Celebrían, Elrond…"

"And Galadriel," Arwen added quietly.

"And Galadriel," the lord of Lothlórien echoed after a slight pause.

"You miss her," Arwen said softly, aware that she now trod upon somewhat dangerous ground.

"As you no doubt miss your father," Celeborn answered, his tone indicating that the discussion was closed.

"But for you it is different," Arwen pressed, not yet ready to forsake the conversation. "I miss my father, yes, but my brothers still remain and my love for Aragorn is powerful enough to overcome the feelings of heartache. But you have not these things, grandfather. My mother forsook Middle Earth years ago, all of your kin save Thranduil are gone, and now Lothlórien is fading."

"Arwen, if there is a point to this, I suggest you arrive at it."

"My point is this," Arwen said, ignoring the warning note in Celeborn’s voice. "You miss Galadriel, and this is interfering with your ability to find answers."

Celeborn was silent for a long time and Arwen began to fear that she had pushed him too far, but at length, her grandfather sighed and shook his head. "You are right, young one. I do miss her. My heart longs for her presence. As I peruse these writings, I am reminded of the many years we lived together, staving off evil side by side until at last the One Ring perished and Sauron was vanquished. For thousands of years we relied upon one another’s strengths. And now it is as though a part of me is gone."

"And you seek to replace that part somehow," Arwen guessed.

The lord of Lothlórien nodded slightly. "I would gather the facts, receiving reports from the scouts and doing a bit of scouting myself. She would then interpret what I had learned, forming causal links backward until she arrived at the source and could interpret motives. She was inductive. I was deductive. She would decipher the reasons behind an attack and the methods used. I would then take what she found and predict future incursions or skirmishes and how they might best be avoided."

"But now you are trying to take on her role as well as maintaining your own," Arwen said. "You are looking at the effects and trying to determine the causes as well as attempting to determine from the causes what other effects will be."

"And you think I am not up to the task?"

"Nay, I said not so!" Arwen hastily amended before she caught the teasing gleam in Celeborn’s eyes.

"If you had, you would be right," Celeborn sighed. "I have now a focal point around which to center my studies, but I can not seem to go further."

"You mentioned Númenor," Arwen said.

"I did," Celeborn said. "And I hold to that, yet…" He shook his head. "It happened in Númenor, of that I am certain."

"But what? What happened in Númenor?"

"Whatever it is that we face now."

"And what makes you so certain?" Arwen pressed.

"A passing thought. A whisper. In truth, I do not know, Arwen, but I do know that this happened in Númenor."

"And you are specifically interested in the time of Ar-Pharazôn," Arwen said quietly, unconsciously slipping into the game of questions that she and Elladan would play. "Why that period?"

"It is that period that is most likely to yield results," Celeborn answered.

"Why?"

"Because of the corruption and the darkness that spread like a plague and eventually drove Elendil to these shores."

"But what forms of corruption and darkness would have survived the ruin of Númenor?"

"Any that Sauron used, promoted, or was aware of," Celeborn sighed. "For he also survived the ruin of Númenor."

"So you believe that whatever we face will have roots in something Sauron did or influenced," Arwen concluded. "Think you that Ar-Pharazôn himself was corrupted by unnatural means?"

"Perhaps to an extent, but I think it rather unlikely that unnatural means were necessary," Celeborn answered with a shake of his head. "I met Ar-Pharazôn many years before Sauron was captured. Even then, he was far too proud for his own good. You will recall that he seized the throne through illegal means. No, it would not have taken much for Sauron to convince him that the Eldar upon Aman warranted his enmity."

"But Ar-Pharazôn did not rule Númenor alone, and thus we come to the nobles who sat upon the councils," Arwen said. "Elendil and his sons escaped. Did they leave a record of unnatural occurrences? Perhaps this is what makes you so certain. Perhaps you remember such a record."

"I have skimmed all that Rivendell has in the way of their works, but I saw nothing," Celeborn murmured. "Yet…mayhap you are right, Arwen. I think this is somehow related to one of the council members. Perhaps…" Celeborn’s brow furrowed and he fell quiet, his eyes narrowed as his gaze became rather blank. Deciding not to press him for the moment, Arwen turned over a dusty page in her book and went back to studying, her own mind turning rapid circles. Silence dropped over the library as each became lost in thought.

The silence was abruptly shattered when Celeborn uttered a short oath and slammed his fist upon the table. Startled, Arwen almost jumped in her chair and turned sharp eyes to her grandfather. "You know what we face?"

"Perhaps, but I pray I am wrong. Still, it makes sense and would fit well with the intentions as we know them. And it would be well within the power of a Black Númenórean. Only time will bear out my predictions, though." He stood abruptly, letting the scroll before him roll shut, and began searching the shelves of the library in earnest.

Arwen studied the older elf for a moment, torn between the restraint her upbringing called for and the curiosity that plagued younger elves. In the end, curiosity won and she followed Celeborn as he swiftly glanced through Rivendell’s vast stacks of books, scrolls, and miscellaneous parchments. "Am I to be given an explanation?"

"I would hesitate before spreading unfounded rumors," Celeborn answered absently with what seemed to be a conditioned response.

Arwen bristled slightly. "I am hardly one to partake in idle gossip, nor do I spread _rumors_ , as you call them. Beyond that, I have now spent a good amount of time aiding you in your search for answers."

Celeborn blinked and looked at his granddaughter, as though realizing for the first time that she was with him. "My apologies, Arwen," he said after a moment. "I did not think before I spoke."

"Apology accepted, of course. But if you would, what have you discovered that so vexes you?"

There was a moment of silence before Arwen received an answer, and when the answer eventually came, it was not exactly what she had been looking for. "Prepare two of the healing rooms for patients, and add restraints to the beds."

Arwen’s mouth gaped open as she blinked in surprise. "Restraints? Are we to be caring for Orcs?"

"Nay, but in all cases, prudence is called for. And see that sleeping draughts are also well stocked. Beyond that, I wish to know exactly what medicines are stored, and doses must be measured out for a being of hobbit size."

After a long, studying look at the lord of Lothlórien, Arwen eventually nodded. "It shall be as you say, but I am still waiting for an explanation, my lord."

"And you shall receive an explanation, I promise, once I have reviewed as many facts as I can find in this place. Then mayhap I might put some order to this madness. But my thoughts are not yet organized, and I fear to spread alarm. But when I have unraveled this mystery, you shall be the first I tell. Now go, Arwen, quickly. Time is of the essence and things must be made ready."

For a moment, Arwen hesitated. Celeborn’s vague words had already begun to spread alarm in her mind, but she sensed that no more information would be forthcoming. Celeborn had lived too long to speak of things that were not yet substantiated. Elrond had done the same thing from time to time, hiding many things from even his children until the time came when secrets could no longer be kept. At length, with a final nod for the elven lord who was now lost in the books again, Arwen turned and left the library. The sooner things were prepared, the sooner she could confront Celeborn again.

* * * *

"Gimli, you’re going to fall," Pippin warned with a large yawn.

"Mind your own pony, Master Hobbit," the dwarf grumbled, blinking his sleepy eyes open.

Slightly ahead of the hobbits and Gimli, Elladan glanced back and sighed. The horses were tired, the searchers were tired, and night had come, yet none of them wished to return to Rivendell, which was now within mortal sight. There was a very strong feeling of reluctance within the group. Most of them were warriors and understood the necessity of delegation and obedience, but it was still quite clear that the hearts of all wished to be back on the trail.

Indeed, there were some who, though they could not be on the trail itself, were still in the forest. Imhran, captain of Gondor’s forces under Aragorn and Faramir, had refused to leave until Aragorn himself emerged from the shadows. He and his men would not disobey their king’s orders by entering the darkness, but neither would they leave until they knew their king was safe. It was a tiring business that they undertook, but it seemed that all the forces of Gondor were determined in their course.

__

Men are strange creatures, Elladan decided wearily. He glanced back into the forest where Imhran and the Gondorrim waited for their king, and as he did so, his sharp eyes caught sight of Gimli’s nodding head, Sam’s closed eyes, and Pippin’s mammoth yawns. _But then, so are dwarves and hobbits. And elves, too, I suppose. Valar, we are all strange creatures to push ourselves beyond reasonable limits when there are others who might carry on while we rest._ That had been the argument that ultimately convinced Elladan to return to Rivendell, much though he wished he could stay with Estel and Elrohir in the darkness. Actually, he did not wish to stay in the darkness, but he wished to stay with his brothers, particularly when each step they took brought them closer to the Orcs.

__

But that is not my place at this time, Elladan sighed. _My place is home where I shall rest, though what rest I might find this night shall surely be lost in pondering over our enemy._

The sudden sound of splashes suddenly caught Elladan’s attention, and he belatedly realized that they were crossing the Ford. _Perhaps I am wearier than I first thought_ , he mused, wondering how he had missed seeing the subtle signs that signaled the direction to the Ford. _It is fortunate that the horses know the way so well or I might have found myself lost in the Rhudaur far away in the north. And I have it on good authority that trolls make for rather poor traveling company._

As his horse surged up the banks and out of the river, Elladan glanced behind to see how Gimli and the hobbits were faring. Swollen by snowmelt, the River Bruinen was running swiftly today, but the half-elf need not have feared. The ponies were swimming the river well and elves slightly more aware of events than Elladan were crossing parallel to them further downstream so that they might be prepared should aught happen to the smaller horses and riders. The water was forded without incident and the riders continued on.

__

If we are forced to rest, I suppose we must make the most of our time, Elladan sighed, raising his hand and moving the group into a fast trot. _Let us arrive quickly and retire soon so that we might rise with our minds refreshed by the morning._

A few minutes later, the elves, hobbits, and dwarf crested a hill, bringing into view the Last Homely House. Its lights twinkled in the darkness as the sun dipped below the horizon, and for a small moment, Elladan felt peace steal into his heart. He allowed this feeling to tarry a bit, sensing that he was in great need of it, and then he shook himself as they began the final part of their journey home. He could not afford to dwell in the peace that Rivendell offered, for war and Orcs loomed upon the borders. Still, Elladan felt strangely invigorated by his brief indulgence and he made a mental note to take such opportunities with more regularity. It might mean greater endurance in the long term.

Having heard their approach, elves now came from the stables and the riders dismounted, allowing their horses to be led away and cared for while they saw to their own needs. Feeling weariness brought on by too much exposure to darkness, Elladan almost stumbled beneath the leaping arches as he climbed the steps that would take him to the main porch. Behind him, the other elves were dispersing, but the sound of footfalls on the main path informed Elladan that Gimli, Pippin, and Sam were following him. _No doubt wondering when we may return to the forest and resume our search,_ Elladan sighed. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a clear answer for this. Elrohir had been rather emphatic that no one should leave Rivendell until after sunrise, but Elladan was already suffering pangs of guilt for his brief respite. Surely he could not allow this to continue until after the sun cleared the mountains. Combating mysterious shadows was a far better prospect than combating his own guilt.

"Elladan?"

Elrond’s son glanced up quickly, and despite his dark mood a smile slipped onto his face. "You are ever a welcome sight, dear sister."

Arwen smiled and embraced Elladan briefly, but though her eyes shone with joy upon seeing him, Elladan could feel the tension in her body and wondered what was going on in Rivendell. Now that he stopped to think about it, the anxiety was not exclusively Arwen’s. It seemed the very air held its breath, and there was an atmosphere of fear and waiting that had rarely been felt here before. Elladan turned sharp eyes upon his sister as questions rose in his mind, but she spoke first, seemingly reluctant to dwell upon her own concerns.

"What news from the south, Elladan? How goes the hunt for our friends?"

"Slowly," the half-elf sighed, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "Each new step in the trail must be wrung from the grip of shadows, and it is exhausting work. Estel and Elrohir now lead the hunt, for I fear that the darkness was too much for me."

"Then to return was wise," Arwen said quietly, her eyes staring intently at Elladan. "Do not blame yourself, brother, for I know well that you do. You were ever the responsible one, and whenever aught went wrong, you always took the blame regardless of fault. But this is beyond your control, and to invite guilt is to invite failure. You distance yourself from your true feelings by hiding them in a cloud of guilt. Have you not said as much to Estel upon occasion? Valar, Elladan, look at me! Are you listening to my words?"

Hearing the frustration in his sister’s voice, Elladan opened his eyes and sighed. "I know you speak the truth, yet I cannot change my nature. And it is my nature to carry what responsibility I have until such responsibility is fulfilled."

"And is it always your nature to labor under a shadow that is of your own making?!"

"This discussion accomplishes nothing," Elladan said, injecting a note of finality into his voice that he desperately hoped Arwen would heed. "Tell me of Imladris, for I sense that all does not go well here."

Something flashed in Arwen’s eyes, but what that something was, Elladan could not tell. It was gone too quickly. "Lord Celeborn thinks he may have found something in the library," Arwen eventually revealed.

"Something pertaining to the hunt?" a gruff voice asked.

Elladan nearly jumped, for he had forgotten that Gimli, Sam, and Pippin had followed him. Glancing back, he noted that all three were standing quietly behind him, listening intently to the conversation and making observations of their own. "I have already discussed eavesdropping with the hobbits," Elladan stated, his voice laced with steel. "Must I also discuss the subject with you, Master Dwarf?"

"Nay, Legolas has spoken with me often enough," Gimli answered, his voice casual but firm. He then turned his attention to Arwen and repeated his earlier question. "So Lord Celeborn thinks he has found something to aid our hunt?"

Arwen hesitated for only a moment, but it was enough for Elladan to mark the pause. Judging from the way his eyes narrowed, Gimli had also seen the brief lapse in focus. "I know not," Arwen murmured, turning her head and looking back at the house that now lay shrouded in the shadow of night. "He was not looking for something to aid the hunt but rather something to explain why Orcs would wish to capture members of the Fellowship. At least, that was the impression I received from him, but his mood was strange. Fey, almost. I am worried."

"You were with him, then, in the library?" Elladan asked.

"For a time," Arwen answered. "He wavered between frustration and obsession. I had never seen him so desperate and yet so hopeless. And then, when it seemed that he had almost given up, it was as though he suddenly received the answer. I think he remembered whatever it was he had been looking for, but I know not for certain. In any case, I have now been dispatched to stock medicinal supplies, particularly sleeping draughts, and to add restraints to some of the beds in the healing quarters."

"Restraints?" Pippin’s voice was slightly higher than usual, an indication of his stress and mounting frustration. "Why do the beds need restraints?"

"I asked Lord Celeborn that same question," Arwen said. "I received no answer that satisfied me. Instead, he spoke of the need for prudence."

"Prudence," Gimli spat with a dark glower. "If we hearken to prudence, we shall never find Legolas and Merry. Perhaps I shall seek Celeborn out myself and demand answers."

"You would demand answers of Lord Celeborn?" Elladan asked with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "You may find this difficult to believe, Master Dwarf, but there are times when my grandfather can be even more difficult than the Lady Galadriel. Demanding answers of him can be likened to pressing blood from a stone. It is futile at best and dangerous at worst."

"I should have stayed with Aragorn," Gimli grumbled quietly, folding his arms across his chest.

"But you said—"

"I know very well what I said, Master Peregrin, and I still hold to that. The darkness has an ill affect on those subjected to it, and in order to help our friends, we ourselves must be whole. Yet it is hard knowing that they suffer as we rest."

"If we could rescue them quickly, we wouldn’t have to worry about spending too much time in the darkness," the hobbit muttered angrily. "It’s beyond me what we can hope to gain here in Rivendell."

"Begging your pardon, Pippin, but that’s actually easy to see," Sam jumped in, speaking for the first time since leaving the hunters in the forest. "What we’ll be gaining here is sleep, and lots of it. If I’m not mistaken, we’ll be starting out into the woods again in the morning, so that should set your heart at ease." The gardener looked to Elladan for confirmation.

"That was my original plan," Elladan said slowly, "but now I am beginning to reconsider my thoughts." He looked back at Arwen. "You say Lord Celeborn wishes for sleeping draughts and restraints?"

"It was practically the only information I received from him that was not in the form of a riddle."

"Sleeping draughts and restraints," Gimli muttered darkly, his eyes running over Rivendell as night crept over the valley.

"Peace, son of Glóin," Elladan warned, watching the dwarf carefully out of the corner of his eye. "We shall accomplish nothing this night, for all solutions are too far from our grasp. Let us do as Elrohir and Aragorn have counseled. We shall rest now and take what sleep we may find. One hour before sunrise, we shall meet here and once again resume the hunt."

"Good," Sam breathed. "Then by your leave, I think I’ll go find Rosie. She gets a bit worried at times and I don’t want to be on the wrong end of her tongue, if you understand me."

"Then I bid you a good night, Samwise," Elladan said with a nod toward the hobbit. "And a good night to Peregrin and Gimli as well. Come, Arwen. If you will have me, I would aid you in your tasks and then see to my own rest."

"Your aid would be most welcome, brother," Arwen answered with a knowing look. "Perhaps we shall exhaust your nervous energy so that you might better sleep this night."

"Perhaps," Elladan conceded with a small smile. He shot a farewell glance at Gimli and Pippin, neither of whom had moved, and caught a glimpse of Sam disappearing into the darkness next to the house. _It seems not all of us shall find rest this night_ , he sighed to himself, recognizing traces of his own despair in the countenances of Gimli and Pippin. But if the return to Rivendell served to strengthen at least Sam, Elladan decided to count it as profit. And doubtless other elves would also be refreshed by this respite in the hunt. He only wished that he could be refreshed as well.

"Elladan?" Arwen questioned gently.

"Coming," he murmured, trying to shrug off his melancholy and focus on the present. "Sleeping draughts, you said?"

"I did. We have some dried _ôlgalenas_ leaves, but it would be wise to obtain more."

"Then I shall find some and prepare them."

"There is also the matter of the restraints," Arwen said quietly, sounding as though she was testing him.

"I remember," Elladan said shortly, walking toward the house and only slowing his stride slightly when Arwen fell into step beside him.

"Grandfather said these measures were primarily for the sake of prudence," Arwen murmured. "A precaution and nothing more."

"But a precaution against what, Arwen?" Elladan demanded, the tight control over his inner thoughts and feelings slipping marginally. He stopped and turned to Arwen, causing her to stop as well and face him. "What possible need will there be under any circumstance for restraints?" Elladan asked. "Did not Celeborn tell you anything concerning this?"

His sister was silent for a moment, her luminous eyes searching his. Then she sighed and shook her head, turning away. "You need not answers, Elladan. You need rest and escape from guilt. This darkness is no fault of yours. The shadow of evil is far older than either of us, and when we are gone, it shall remain. It has deceived many of the great ones in the past. Your inability to detect its presence is not a sin. Now come and aid me. Or sleep. In truth, I care not what you do so long as you cease to dwell in your world of self-pity."

A spark of anger flared within Elladan, but it was swiftly doused by the knowledge that Arwen was right. _But then, she usually is_ , he thought wryly. With resignation on his face, Elladan laughed quietly to himself and wrapped a brotherly arm around Arwen’s shoulders. "My apologies, dear sister. I think I shall come to aid you, and by doing so, I believe I shall aid myself. My thanks for your words. Your thoughts are clearer than mine."

"As is usually the case," Arwen snorted, but her eyes were kind and she smiled at him. "Then let us depart so that we may both have time for sleep, for I am also weary."

"It shall be as you say," Elladan promised. "But speak with me as we walk. Surely Celeborn told you more than what you have revealed. Surely there was a purpose to his search."

"Ar-Pharazôn," Arwen answered, her voice carrying a touch of confusion. "Toward the end of our search, the focus was upon Ar-Pharazôn."

"Ar-Pharazôn?" Elladan echoed with a frown. "What does the last king of Númenor have to do with our current situation?"

"I believe Celeborn was looking for means of corruption, for he seemed intent on discovering things related to the downfall of Númenor. But again, I cannot be certain."

"So our grandfather searches records of the Second Age," Elladan said after a moment of silence. "He believes this evil to be the product of something that happened several millennia ago." The son of Elrond shook his head, and his voice became bitter. "Would that we could have prevented this."

"We have been over this," Arwen sighed. "And going over it again shall not change what has happened. Guilt is useless, and we need not its burden. Now come, brother, and let us not speak of these things again tonight but concentrate on the tasks given us. Perhaps hope shall rise again with the sun."

"Perhaps," Elladan murmured, glancing back out at the valley that now lay shrouded by night. "I suppose that anything is possible."

* * * *

Until now, Legolas had never been in complete darkness.

He had been in caves, of course. One could not befriend a dwarf without entering a cave at least once during the duration of that friendship. And before his friendship with Gimli, there had been Moria. Additionally, there had also been the darkness of Sauron over Minas Tirith, the shadow of Dol Guldur upon Mirkwood, and almost the entire expanse of the Paths of the Dead. Dark places and dark times, all of them, and all known well to the elf. But never had Legolas found himself in a place where even the light and hope of companions as well as his own inner light as an elf seemed to be extinguished. Here, not only was there a total absence of light, but there seemed to also be a total absence of life. His soul felt as though it had faded away until it was but a mere flicker of flame set amidst the cooling embers of a dying fire. A chill the likes of which Legolas had never experienced crept over him, and it seemed to the elf that evil took on a tangible form and loomed over him, intent on devouring what little essence remained.

And for the first time in his long life, Legolas was mortally afraid.

This was another new experience for him. The elf had experienced fear many times. The sight of the Balrog in Moria had raised terrible memories of stories that older elves would tell the younger generation just before bed. It had also raised memories that were more born of heritage than anything else, and the elf had been very afraid. And all throughout his life, Legolas had lived with the fear of failure, the fear of the unknown, the fear of Mordor…but never had he been mortally afraid. He had faced death before, of course. That was nothing new. And he had been nigh unto death several times through mishap or misfortune. But never had he feared it. That is, never had he feared it until now, for if he died at this moment, Legolas sensed somehow that he would remain trapped in this darkness. He would not be able to find his way out, he would not journey to the Halls of Mandos, and he would become the property and the plaything of evil for as long as time endured. And this knowledge, coupled with his rather dangerous circumstances, caused such turmoil and anguish within the elf that he was almost on the verge of a full-fledged panic attack.

Fortunately, a small measure of calm and sanity remained to him, and retreating deep within himself, Legolas tried to summon his fading reserves of energy to strike back at the darkness that sought to control him. But the darkness was content to sidestep his blow and dance around him, secure in the knowledge that its prey would not soon escape. Fighting away the feelings of desperation and hysteria, Legolas tried to rationally assess his predicament, but coherent thoughts were beginning to slip away from him as fear took a firmer hold. He had to get out. He had to flee. He had to escape! But how? He knew not where he was, why he was here, or in what direction safety might lie. And the more he realized the hopelessness of his predicament, the more he pulled back and the more the darkness encroached.

__

Focus! he screamed at himself, hoping to stir some form of resistance. But resistance seemed to be in short supply while the darkness was certainly not lacking for strength and patience. Time, also, was currently on the side of darkness, and Legolas was all too aware of this. Frantic for anything that might aid him in driving the shadows from his mind, Legolas directed his senses toward his surroundings, hoping that a better grasp on reality might aid him in regaining his bearings.

Sight was a lost cause, as the elf had already discovered. Wherever he was, there was a complete absence of light and his keen elven sight was of no use to him. But other senses there were at his disposal, and Legolas quickly put them to work. Judging from the surrounding smell, he was still somewhere in the caverns of the Orcs. The air was dank and musty, and there was an odor lingering in the room that spoke of the unwashed filthiness of many goblin bodies as well as not enough ventilation. Cringing slightly, Legolas wondered if this new knowledge might not be making things worse, but he had no other option.

Touch came next, and it was through this sense that Legolas began to gain a better idea of where he was. Cold stone lay beneath his back and his arms were stretched above his head. Tight chains had been locked about his wrists and ankles, and an experimental tug revealed that he would not be going anywhere in the immediate future. His fettered position reminded Legolas immediately of his first mental encounter with the Mouth of Sauron, and a chill crept down his back. It didn’t help that there was also a sharp chill in the air, indicating that he was deep underground. _Again_ , he sighed mentally.

Finally, the elf focused his attention on sound. Initially, this seemed to be just as fruitless as sight, for the only sounds he could hear were the sounds of his own labored breathing and the rapid pounding of his heart. But gradually, as he adjusted his senses to ignore these particular noises, his acute ears began to pick up on something else. It was a faint sound that seemed to tread the boundary between real and imagined, but as he continued to listen, Legolas became convinced that it was no trick of the mind. He could hear breathing that was not his own. There was someone else in this room with him.

Immediately, Legolas’s mind shifted into action and he ran through possible beings who might be sharing this room with him. The sound of breathing was too soft for him to identify who it was, but the elf decided there were only three plausible options. It could be Merry, it could be an Orc, or it could be the Mouth of Sauron. And if his current run of fortune was any indication, it would undoubtedly be one of the latter two.

Unable to tell who shared his room and wary of betraying the fact that he was now awake, Legolas stayed quiet for another minute or two in the hopes that the stranger might reveal himself. But there was no change in the breathing, and Legolas eventually decided that he would have to make the first move. He was beginning to harbor a faint hope that the room’s other occupant was Merry, for surely anyone else—or any _thing_ else—would have already acted. Steeling himself in the event that his hopes might prove false, Legolas drew a breath and called out softly.

"Merry?"

Now his ears caught a soft rustle of heavy robes and the unmistakable clink of chain mail as someone moved in the darkness. With a sinking heart, Legolas realized his initial instincts had been correct. Wherever Merry was, he was not here.

"You are awake," a soft voice observed, and at the sound of this voice, the temperature in the room seemed to dorp several degrees. "I had begun to wonder if you would sleep the night away. Your hobbit friend woke some time ago, and if he has regained consciousness again, he is no doubt anxious about you. It is unusual for an elf to stay unconscious for so long. My apologies if I was the cause."

Legolas had no idea what to say in response to that and so stayed silent. The man from Mordor’s ruin paused as though waiting for some kind of answer from the elf, but when there was none, he chuckled slightly. Legolas’s keen hearing heard him move above him, and then a touch colder than death came down to smooth the hair away from his forehead. Despite himself, the elf jerked away from the man’s hand, but this only resulted in a greater chuckle, and he heard the Mouth of Sauron seat himself on the stone slab where the elf lay.

"You still think to fight me?" The voice seemed vastly amused and a shiver of fear went down the elf’s spine. "You forget, elfling, that you allowed the darkness to enter your mind. Without it, you would still be broken and bleeding in your cell. But you chose otherwise, didn’t you? You consented to its healing power. And then you obeyed its first commands by not leaving the cave system. Do you really think you can cast it aside now?"

Once again, Legolas made no answer to the Mouth of Sauron, but this time, an answer was not expected. Hands came down to rest on either side of the elf’s face, and slender fingers positioned themselves on his temples. Legolas tried to jerk away, but it seemed as though strength suddenly fled him. He found himself completely unable to move.

"Nay, none of that, my friend," the Mouth of Sauron whispered. "Relax and allow me to work. Open your mind to me. I will be but a moment."

Sauron’s lieutenant fell silent then, his hands tightened around Legolas’s face, and the elf stiffened as the darkness about him suddenly seized his mind. This was nothing like the shadows he’d fought before, for they had merely hovered on the edges of reality. But now, evil’s presence was unmistakable, and Legolas found he was no longer the master of his own thoughts. Driven deeper into the recesses of his mind, the elf scrambled for some way to slow his retreat, but the darkness would not be denied and pounded away relentlessly at whatever walls he attempted to construct.

"What do you want?" Legolas eventually gasped, struggling to reassert at least some semblance of control over the situation.

"You, my friend. But there is no longer a need to struggle as you are doing. Relax. This will not take long since you have already granted me access." There was silence for a moment more, and then the Mouth of Sauron spoke again while shadows continued to strike against the elf’s defenses. "Good, elfling. You are afraid. You fear the darkness, and rightly so."

"I fear nothing," Legolas hissed, hoping the quiver in his voice and the tremble in his limbs might go unnoticed.

"Only fools fear nothing."

"Fools or those who have nothing to fear."

"Those who have nothing to fear are those without hope, for from hope is born fear. Tell me, elfling, are you truly without hope?"

Legolas gritted his teeth, grasping for an answer to that. The darkness was further clouding his thoughts and the questing probe of evil within his mind was becoming harder and harder to resist. "I have no need of hope, for I have a surety of knowledge."

At this, the Mouth of Sauron began to laugh. "A knowledge of what, my friend? That you will escape? That the darkness shall be thrown off? I say to you, Legolas, son of Thranduil, that even were your friends to find this lair now and slay every Orc ever spawned within the shadows, you would be lost to them. There is no help for you, and your only refuge can be found in the twilight. Now, let us cease this talk and go about our business. There is much to do and we have only just begun."

Legolas, though, had other ideas. He had no intention of allowing the Mouth of Sauron to "go about his business" and he mentally braced himself for whatever was about to happen next. But for all his efforts, he was completely unprepared for the onslaught that swept over him. With a mental scream, he felt the light of his soul buried beneath a realm of shadows, and as Legolas faded away into darkness, the room was illuminated just long enough for him to catch sight of a triumphant smile gracing the Mouth of Sauron’s face.

 

__

Author’s Notes: It seems that the Mouth of Sauron is getting more names than Aragorn. And they all had me laughing, so I thought I’d share. Liz D. was informed that Mr. Mouth once introduced himself by saying, "There are those who call me…Tim?" Not fully content with this theory, Liz has also pointed out that Bob would be a nice, neutral name. On the other hand, Gimli der Zwerg firmly believes that Mr. Mouth’s name is Edward "Ted" Crilly. Personally, I like Patches, but I think that Ted is a more dangerous-sounding name. Have to credit Nimue with that one.

As for when Celeborn and Galadriel met, I believe it was shortly after the Age of Stars. However, it’s interesting to note that in some of Tolkien’s later manuscripts he had both Celeborn and Galadriel coming over into Exile together, which means they met before the First Age. I’ve tried to write with an interpretation that doesn’t exclude other interpretations (meaning I’ve made it all rather vague) so take it as you will.

The method Aragorn uses to find the Orc trail is from my own imagination. I kind of sat back and wondered exactly what happened when he confronted Sauron through the palantír, and that’s what came out. So I figured I’d use it for something.


	16. Midnight Musings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey again! Here am I, back to answer a few questions that have cropped up. But before I do, thank you for all the reviews! I really cant say that enough. You guys are the ones who keep me going, and I love all the comments, suggestions, and thoughts you bring up. Thank you so very much!

Samwise Gamgee gently swung the door to his room open, shielding the candle with one hand so as not to disturb anyone. It was dark and silent inside, and for a brief moment, the hobbit was reminded of the clinging shadows that had drifted about in the forests south of Rivendell. He shivered and thrust that thought away. He was back with Rosie and Elanor now. That was all that mattered. He wasn’t about to taint their minds with the things he’d seen while hunting for Merry and Legolas.

Setting the candle on a large chest, Sam turned with the intention of finding his pack and changing into nightclothes, but as he faced the bed, he stopped, surprised. It was empty. Concerned now, the hobbit began a thorough search of the room, yet he found no sign of where his wife or child might be.

"But…but we’re in Rivendell," Sam murmured to himself, surveying the room with confusion and a bit of fear. "And nothing would come into this valley but what Arwen and the other elves would know it. And Rosie wouldn’t leave Rivendell with Elanor. Not without protection, at least. She’s too bright a lass for that." The hobbit scratched his head, took one more glance at the room, and then picked up the candle. Hurrying out into the corridor, he paused for a moment to gather his bearings and then started for the main hall. Perhaps someone there might know where Rosie and Elanor were.

"You seem distressed, Master Samwise. Is aught wrong?"

Sam jumped and berated himself for not paying attention to his surroundings. When wandering about in a land of elves, it was always good to glance about every minute or so to see if there were any elves sneaking up on you. Not that all of them would sneak up on you for the fun of it, though there were some that did and seemed to find great amusement in doing so. But most elves didn’t try to sneak up on people. At least, that’s what they told him. It just seemed to happen because they were so quiet.

"Master Samwise?"

Realizing he had become lost in his thoughts, Sam turned and bowed to an elf behind him. He recognized the elf, but he couldn’t place the name at the moment. "I…I was looking for Rosie. My wife. Have you seen her?"

"Ah, no one has told you?" the elf asked. "I believe she left a message for you, but it appears that the message has become lost. Fear not, my friend, for I know her whereabouts and shall lead you to her."

"She’s all right, isn’t she?" Sam asked, fear coloring his tone. "Nothing happened to her, did it? And Elanor? She’s fine, too, isn’t she?"

"All are well," the elf reassured him. "Your beloved was merely in need of thought and contemplation. Much has happened to her since leaving the Shire, and it took time to sort through all that has transpired."

At this, Sam felt a pang of guilt slice through his heart. What had he been thinking? While he was off playing in shadows with Pippin, Rosie was left alone to deal with memories of the Orcs and the battle. Sam remembered all too well the first time he met an Orc. It had been in the Hall of Mazarbul where the Fellowship made a desperate stand before Balin’s tomb. And even with all that happened afterwards such as the fall of Gandalf and the peace of Lothlórien, that memory continued to haunt Sam for many days. There was something about confronting a living, breathing Orc that completely destroyed innocence. Not even the Black Riders could really compare, for they were too otherworldly. Once their presence was gone, they were almost as ghosts and shadows of the imagination, too horrible to actually be real. Orcs, on the other hand, were far too real to dismiss, and their hideous natures were as poison to innocent souls. Somehow, in the chaos of everything that happened after Legolas and Merry disappeared, Sam had forgotten that this was Rosie’s first encounter with the Orcs and that she would need help in dealing with it.

"Master Samwise?"

Once again startled out of his thoughts, but certainly not out of his guilt, Sam jumped and then sent a sheepish expression toward the elf. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to get distracted like that," he explained. "It’s just that I remembered when I…or when we, rather…can I see Rosie now?"

The elf laughed, and at his laugh, some of Sam’s fears began to ease. After all, Rivendell was probably the best place in all of Middle Earth to deal with Orc memories. "As I said before, dear hobbit, all is well," the elf said, his eyes twinkling in the dim light of the halls. "It was many years ago, but I also remember my first encounter with an Orc. Rest assured that we have done everything in our power to comfort and aid your wife. We should be very poor hosts were it otherwise. Come! We shall test our hospitality by your judgement of our conduct!"

Saying this, the elf began walking, and Sam was forced to double his stride in order to keep up with the elf. They passed silently through many twisting corridors and many large rooms. It might have been bewildering to the untrained eye, but to Sam, there was suddenly a great air of familiarity about their journey. The hobbit had walked this path many times during the months that he and Frodo had been guests in Imladris, and he now knew exactly where Rosie was. _And had I chosen a place for her to be, I don’t know as I’d have chosen any better than what the elves chose. Bless them, when they do something, they know how to do it and do it well! My Gaffer would be proud._

The elf that Sam had been following eventually stopped outside a tall set of doors and then gave the hobbit a quick bow. "Unless she has taken herself elsewhere, your wife is within. I now bid you a good night, Master Gamgee, and I urge you to seek sleep at some point. It seems to me that you are greatly wearied."

"I’ll do that," Sam promised, placing a hand on one of the door’s large handles. "Have a good night yourself, and thank you."

"It was my honor," the elf assured him before turning away and vanishing into the darkness.

Left alone, Sam stifled a large yawn and then pulled the great door outward, grunting slightly at the effort. A red light fell upon his face and a pleasant sensation of warmth crept over him. The hobbit smiled and sighed, feeling as though somehow he had just returned home. It had been years since his last visit to this place, but Sam had never forgotten the Hall of Fire.

Pulling the door further open, Sam’s eyes first came to rest upon the roaring hearth where the eternal flames for which this hall was named leaped high into the night, banishing the darkness and dancing in rhythm to the stars that twinkled above Rivendell. It seemed as though all the waters of the River Bruinen were suddenly set loose, and a flood of memories washed over Sam. Songs and tales sprang to mind, as fresh and vivid as they had been when he’d first heard them in this hall. Laughter and voices called out to him, and for a moment, he walked in living memory. He could see all of them again—Frodo, Bilbo, Boromir, Strider, Elrond, Merry, Pippin…they came to life around him, joking and singing as though the past had come again to Rivendell. Or perhaps he had returned to it and it had never left. Joy swelled within Sam’s breast, and he took a step forward, ready to embrace the memory as reality.

And then the vision vanished. The hall was empty once more. Silence fell again.

With a sigh of both gratitude and regret, Sam shook his head and moved forward, reminding himself of his mission. Looking around, he quickly spied two figures against the far wall, both hidden partially by a pillar. Smiling in relief, Sam started toward them, and at his approach, one of them looked up, immediately sending him a grin that would put the sun to shame.

"Daddy!"

As Elanor came bounding to him, Sam dropped to one knee and caught his daughter in a firm embrace, feeling all lingering effects of shadow drift away to be consumed by the roaring fires. "Hello, beautiful. Were you a good girl while I was away?" Sam asked, squeezing his daughter tightly.

"Very good," Elanor answered, pulling away and bobbing her head. "Daddy, the elves said I was pretty."

"And you are," Sam said, affectionately tousling her hair. "You’re the prettiest lass in all of Rivendell and in all of the Shire, or my name’s not Samwise Gamgee." Sam rose and smiled at Rosie, who was now moving toward the two. "And did you take care of Mommy for me?" he asked with a wink at his wife.

Elanor nodded again, her smile growing. "Mommy said I was a big help."

"And you were," Rosie confirmed, closing the distance between them quickly and wrapping Sam in a firm hug. "I feared you wouldn’t come back," she whispered.

"Now, Rosie, there’s no call for that," Sam said awkwardly, returning the embrace fervently. "Seeing as I was with the best protection you can find nowadays, there was no reason to worry."

"I worried anyway and I’ll worry when you leave again tomorrow."

Sam blinked and pulled back. "I didn’t say anything about—"

"I know, but that’s what will happen," Rosie sighed. "You didn’t find Merry and your elven friend, did you? If you had, we’d have heard about it. And since you didn’t find them today, you’ll be going back out there tomorrow. I know you too well, Samwise Gamgee."

"I can’t sit here and do nothing," Sam murmured, feeling as though his heart was torn in two.

"And I don’t expect you to," Rosie said. "I love you for who you are, Sam, and if you didn’t go back out into those woods, you wouldn’t be yourself. I’d be holding you back, and I wouldn’t do that. But I’ll worry every minute you’re away. Those…those Orcs…they…"

"Hush," Sam soothed, pulling Rosie back into a tight hug. "Those Orcs are none too bright, but they’re too smart to come into Rivendell. You’re safe here, and I’ll be safe with the elves. Elves don’t like Orcs, and they won’t let them get away with anything if they can help it." They were silent for a moment, all things around them forgotten, and then Sam drew back. "How are you? And don’t lie, Rosie lass. How are you really?"

"I’ll be fine," Rosie answered with a slight smile. "The elves here…they’re wonderful for talking. They’ll listen to everything you have to say, and when you’re done talking, you feel better for some reason. They said I should wait for you in this hall, and I think it’s helped. I don’t feel alone here."

"You never were alone, and you’re certainly not alone anymore," Sam said firmly. "I know what you’re going through. I went through it, too. And it will pass, Rosie. It will pass."

"Daddy?"

Elanor’s inquisitive voice reminded Sam that he and Rosie still had an audience. With a quiet chuckle, he moved out of the hug, though he still kept his arm possessively around Rosie’s shoulders. "Yes, sweetheart?"

"Where’s the bush?"

Sam started to laugh, and he felt Rosie’s shoulders quivering as she began laughing as well. "I don’t know. I think he went to bed, which is where you should be going."

A look of extreme stubbornness took over Elanor’s face, and she folded her arms in a very familiar expression of indignation and determination. "I’m not sleepy," she declared.

"It’s long past your bedtime," Sam reasoned, "and you had a busy day today, I’m sure."

"The elves are still up," Elanor pointed out. "And they had a busy day, too."

"Elves are different," Sam tried to explain. "They don’t need sleep like you and I do."

"Just because I’m different doesn’t mean that I’m sleepy!"

"You can stay up just a little longer," Rosie broke in with a sigh. "But not much longer. Is that clear?"

Mollified for the moment, the little hobbit nodded. "Then can I go play?"

"For a bit."

Elanor grinned and ran back to the far wall, dropping down to play with the toys that Elrohir and Elladan had dug up for her. Confused, Sam shot an inquiring look at his wife who merely smiled in return.

"This place is so peaceful. I really don’t want to leave just yet, Sam, and I don’t see any harm in letting Elanor stay up a little later. She’ll probably fall asleep on her own in a minute anyway."

"And force me to carry her back to our room," Sam grumped, smiling to show his playfulness. "But you’re right, Rosie. This place is…well, I don’t know as any words rightly describe this place, but I wouldn’t mind staying here a bit longer, either."

"Good," Rosie said, wrapping her arm around her husband’s waist as she began walking after Elanor. "I wanted to share this room with you. They told me it was called the Hall of Fire and that there’s always a fire here."

"Even in summer, or so they say," Sam murmured. "I once spent about two months here in Rivendell, and I don’t know as I found any place better than this one."

"There are…memories here," Rosie said, seating herself upon a bench and leaning against Sam as he sat next to her. "Good memories and bad memories, both, but…it feels like everything that ever happened is somehow with us in this room."

"Wonderful folk, elves," Sam sighed, pulling Rosie against his body and closing his eyes. "To look at them, you wouldn’t expect all this memory and heartache. But when they start to sing…it’s the singing as what goes to your head. Or rather you heart, I guess I should say. And they have songs about everything. Fancy songs, simple songs, long songs, short songs, happy songs, sad songs…they’re all there and they’re all sung. I don’t know as would I ever tire of them. The elves don’t seem to, never mind that they’re always singing them. Even Gimli grew fond of elven song by the end of the journey. He’s the dwarf that Elanor’s taken such a fancy to. Now there’s a puzzle and no mistake. At the start of our journey Gimli wouldn’t so much as look at an elf, but now he’s riding behind Legolas wherever they go, and you never see one but you also see the other. I never did understand what happened and they don’t talk about it much, but…" Sam suddenly trailed off, aware that Rosie had become very heavy against his side. Glancing down, he discovered that somewhere during the course of his monologue, she’d drifted off to sleep. An expression of peace was plastered over her face, and Sam sighed, smiling slightly and brushing away a strand of dark hair that was tickling her nose. "The Gaffer always did say I talk too much," he murmured, stifling his own yawn. "And bless me if I haven’t put you to sleep with it. I should probably wake you and take you to bed. You an Elanor both."

But another yawn took hold of Sam’s face before he could act on this thought, and a sleepy warmth was creeping over his body. _Ah well, it’s probably for the best_ , he reflected as his mind began to drift. _And it’s not as if I haven’t fallen asleep in here before._ And with this, Sam allowed his eyes to close and his mind was taken away into strange dreams, touched by hobbit memory but blessed by elven sanctuary.

* * * *

Merry decided that the next time he and Legolas took a journey to the world of the unconscious, the elf should have to wake up first. It was clearly his turn. Merry had been the first one awake after their initial capture, he’d been the first one awake after their first encounter with the Mouth of Sauron and his rather enthusiastic troop of Orcs, and he was the first one awake now. This didn’t sit well with the hobbit, particularly since he didn’t like to be the first one awake. It was always easier if someone else woke first, figured out what was going on, and then filled him in on the details later.

Unfortunately, Legolas showed no signs of stirring in the immediate future, which meant that Merry was left to puzzle out the latest mystery on his own. This actually wasn’t as much of a challenge as it could have been because the current enigma was very similar to the last one. In fact, it was _exactly_ like the last one. The door to their cell had once again been left open, there was nothing in the way of shackles or fetters to hold the prisoners back, and as far as Merry could tell, they were very much alone in the dungeon. _Again. And we all know how well this worked last time._

With a sigh, the hobbit sat back against a wall and drew his knees up to his chest, resting his chin upon them. He supposed he could have gone exploring on his own, but he really didn’t want to venture into the dark caves without Legolas. The elf had a presence and a poise that was very comforting. Even when he’d confessed that they were going in circles, Legolas had been possessed of a quiet confidence that never seemed to fail. And this quiet confidence was an invaluable asset when fumbling through black corridors and foul dungeons. Without it, Merry feared that he would lose his courage and his mind, so he settled back to wait for the elf to wake, humming softly to himself. He probably should have been more concerned about their future than he was, but since there didn’t seem to be anything he could do at the present time, he didn’t see any sense in worrying. It was something he’d learned from Frodo on the quest to destroy the Ring. There was no point in worrying about the things you couldn’t change. It was the things you _could_ change that should be worrisome.

Which is not to say that Merry was comfortable in his cell. Far from it. Deep down in his heart, he was terrified. He had no idea what was happening, he had no idea what was planned, and he had no idea about what the future held. But he wasn’t letting these fears take over his mind, which gave him a calm that was very much at odds with his present surroundings. He was still rather unnerved by what seemed to be a growing shadow in his thoughts, but since it was more or less dormant at the moment, Merry decided it wasn’t worth stewing over.

__

Still, I suppose that I ought to think about something or do something productive while I’m awake and alert. Otherwise I’ll do nothing but sit here and stare at that torch over there. Not that sitting by the wall and staring at the torch was necessarily a bad thing. It was certainly a far better prospect than running into a band of Orcs or the Mouth of Sauron out in the tunnels. But torch-watching was becoming a rather tedious activity, and Merry decided that for the sake of his sanity, he probably needed to do something else with his time. As for what that something was, well…that was another matter. _Perhaps if I sit here long enough, something will occur to me._

With this thought, Merry continued to stare at the torch, eventually becoming lost in the dance of the flames while his mind was slowly drawn back through time until arriving at the failed escape attempt. Deciding that this place was as good a place as any to start, Merry shrugged and began calling to mind pertinent details. Exactly how long ago had that been? An hour? A day? A week? Time had ceased to hold meaning for the hobbit, which was strange, especially since hobbits used time to signal the start of meals. Merry hadn’t eaten during his stay with the Orcs, but he could not say that he was hungry. Not really hungry, anyway. He was hungry in the sense that he knew he’d missed several important mealtimes, but his stomach was not clamoring for food and his body didn’t seem to mind that fact that he hadn’t eaten for a while.

__

And no drink, Merry realized, thinking the situation over a little more carefully. _I’ve had nothing to drink, but I’m not thirsty. And I’m not nauseous. That can’t be the problem. If someone put some turkey and potatoes in front of me, I’d gladly eat them. But I’m not hungry. I wouldn’t_ need _to eat them._

Scratching his head, Merry frowned and glanced toward Legolas. He’d have to ask the elf about this. There was something very strange going on, but for the life of him, Merry couldn’t figure out what. The thought occurred to him that perhaps Legolas wouldn’t know what was going on either, but that was too discouraging for the hobbit and he dismissed the notion, ignoring the fact that the elf had already admitted that he didn’t know what was happening.

With that problem now stored away for a time when Legolas was awake to discuss it, Merry returned to the task of figuring out just how long ago he and the elf had tried to escape. In the end, his estimate was three or four hours. Maybe five. When he woke and discovered himself back in the cell after a rather unnerving meeting with the Mouth of Sauron, his back had been stiff from lying on the ground in an awkward position but not painfully so. He couldn’t have been lying there for long. That problem solved, Merry took a moment to celebrate and then moved on to a far more daunting question: What had happened to them at the entrance of the cave? Why hadn’t they been able to escape? And what had been the purpose of letting them leave the cell in the first place?

Merry could have gone on in his questions, but then he would have to confront the mystery of what exactly the Mouth of Sauron was doing to them and he didn’t want to think about that. He had a feeling that the answer would be unpleasant, and he’d rather leave the task of figuring that out to Legolas. The elf was probably better at handling unpleasant situations than he was.

But how was he to know what had happened at the cave’s entrance without knowing what the Mouth of Sauron was doing? Rubbing his head and cursing as he felt the beginnings of a rather large headache, Merry wondered how Aragorn made this all look so easy. The king of Gondor only had to glance sideways at a situation, and then all the details would suddenly became clear to him. It was uncanny and the hobbit was more than a little envious of this ability.

A quiet mumble suddenly drew his attention away from his thoughts, and Merry looked hopefully at his cellmate. Legolas moved slightly and one hand came up to rub the side of his head, but then he quieted and fell motionless again.

"Legolas?" Merry tried, refusing to let hope die so easily.

But the elf made no response, and the hobbit sighed with the knowledge that he probably had another hour or so to himself until the elf woke. Legolas didn’t look very good and probably needed the sleep. _But what if sleep is bad for him_? Merry wondered, wishing Aragorn was here to decipher everything. _My own dreams aren’t too comforting right now and there’s something dark in them. Something keeps telling me to…to do things, only I can’t remember what those things are right now._

Becoming disgusted with thoughts that didn’t seem to be going anywhere, Merry groaned and rubbed his temples. He was no closer to answers now than he had been when he’d started. For all his musings and all his ponderings, the hobbit still knew only one thing for certain: The next time they were unconscious, it was definitely Legolas’s turn to wake up first.

* * * *

The Hall of Fire was silent and still when Gimli entered. High above him, the eternal stars glittered and sang, harmonizing with the flames that surged up from the blaze at the end of the room. During his stay in Rivendell prior to the formation of the Fellowship, Gimli had spent much time in this hall. His father had strongly disapproved, but Gimli had been strangely drawn to the place. He’d made a point of avoiding it when it was frequented by elves, but in the early morning hours when all others were asleep, Gimli would often rouse himself and creep into this unique room for quiet meditation. It seemed as though his thoughts became tangible entities here, easier to see and sort, while distracting emotions were soothed by the crackle of the perpetual fire. Gimli had never been able to look upon a forge in quite the same way ever since, and he had occasionally wondered if fire might not be the elves’ connection to the foundations of Arda, where flame and heat shaped the structures of the world. Of all the wonders of Rivendell, the Hall of Fire was a place that a dwarf would most appreciate, and unable to sleep, it was here that Gimli had come in a seemingly fruitless search for answers and dreams.

With a tired sigh that spoke of far more than simple weariness, Gimli moved to stand before the raging fire, watching as tongues of flame leaped and hissed, waving slightly when a gentle breeze wafted through the room. Losing himself in their hypnotic dance, Gimli’s mind began to drift to other fires, and he saw himself seated in the wilderness next to Legolas, speaking quietly as the campfire died away and the night turned cool. He could almost hear the elf singing softly to himself as the stars lit the sky, and Gimli felt himself lulled to sleep by the gentle cadences of an elven song. He heard Legolas laugh and say something about ballads being used as lullabies, but by that point, the dwarf was too far gone to give a response. Then Legolas would cover him with his own cloak and a thick blanket, resume his singing, and Gimli would drift away on the tides of strange dreams.

With a shake of his head, the dwarf moved reluctantly out of memories and back into reality. He still harbored doubts about returning to Rivendell, but Gimli’s mind was possessed of a cruel logic that asserted itself once in a while. It had been at work during the long chase across the plains of Rohan and had made him suggest stopping for the night, contrary to the obvious wishes of Legolas and the fears that they all shared. And this logic had come to him again in the face of Aragorn’s arguments, pointing out that he would do Legolas no good if he collapsed on his feet in the middle of a battle. It was better to rest during the long wait rather than worrying and stewing over things that could not be rushed.

And beyond these reasons, Gimli had seen that Aragorn would not be gainsaid in his decision to send the dwarf and the hobbits back to Rivendell. And as stubborn as he was, even Gimli would hesitate before he challenged Aragorn when the man had set his mind upon something, especially if Aragorn also happened to be tired, frustrated, worried, and away from Arwen. In any case, Gimli had been of little help on the search itself, and he was not too proud to admit that the tension between himself and Thranduil was partially his fault. At least, he was not too proud to admit it to himself, but he would build a forge in a tree ere he would ever admit it to anyone else, even Legolas.

__

Legolas…

Gimli did not like feeling helpless. Dwarves were not supposed to feel helpless. They were fierce warriors and industrious workers, always finding something to do and always having two or three other projects in mind even as they labored away on something else. But at the moment, Gimli could only think of the searchers in the darkness and how he was powerless to aid them. Somewhere beyond the shadow was his friend, yet how that friend could be found was beyond the dwarf. Glancing up through gaping windows at the stars that seemed to dance forever while remaining blissfully ignorant of life’s cruelties, the dwarf offered a silent plea for help. But the night kept its silence and made no answer.

Passing his hand over the sharp blade of his axe where it rested in his belt, Gimli shook his head and sighed. If Legolas could see him now, the elf would laugh. Here was a dwarf, a master of metal and stone, staring at the fire and the stars with an intensity and interest that only an elf would show. And much as he hated to admit it, Gimli longed to hear that mocking laugh and listen to the teasing jests that would be tossed his direction. He wished to field the insults and return them. He wished for their endless banter and battle of wits that could drive even Aragorn to distraction. He wished to be continually looking up at the elf and envying him for his height. Durin’s beard, he wished for his friend!

"By the Valar, Legolas, where are you?!" Gimli cursed, slumping down onto a nearby bench and running a hand over his face as frustration, fear, and anger got the better of him. "Where are you, my friend, and how can I reach you? How do I come to your aid?"

"Bush?"

The dwarf jerked up in surprise at the tentative voice, for he had believed himself to be alone. Making a quick survey of the room, his quick eyes soon spied three figures in a far corner, hidden by the shadows of pillars. Leaning against the wall, Sam was fast asleep and snoring slightly. Rosie’s head was pillowed on his lap, a look of relief spread across her slumbering face. By contrast, their daughter was wide-awake and gazing at Gimli with curious eyes.

"Good evening, little one," Gimli finally answered, managing to force a smile onto his face. Elanor smiled back and waved. "Would you join me?" the dwarf invited, patting the bench next to him. Elanor giggled and nodded, scampering across the room and scrambling up onto the bench. Her first action was to grab for the beard, and Gimli chuckled as he lifted her into his lap. "Still fascinated by this? I suppose you haven’t seen many beards during your short life, have you?"

"Pretty," Elanor said with a smile, entwining her small hands in the thick hair and resting her had on Gimli’s chest. The dwarf snorted and began to laugh.

"Pretty? Ah, little one, if only Legolas was here now. It would do him good to hear an honest and accurate opinion." The dwarf sighed, his thoughts darkening and his eyes glancing again at the stars that his elven friend loved so much.

"Why are you sad?" Elanor asked, staring at Gimli with the innocent and heartfelt concern of a child.

Gimli smiled slightly and pulled the little hobbit closer to him. "I have a very dear friend, and he can’t be with me right now," the dwarf whispered, saying things he would never imagine saying to anyone else, least of all Legolas. "I miss him very much, and I am worried about him."

"Where is he?"

"I wish I knew, Elanor," Gimli murmured. "I wish I knew."

"Maybe he’s scared and he’s hiding."

Gimli bit his lip, not wishing to think about the possibilities. "I hope that is not the case, dear one. I have never seen him hide from anything."

"Maybe it’s a game. I know lots of good hiding games."

"I pray it is merely a game," the dwarf whispered, closing his eyes and turning his head. "Yet if that is so, it has lasted far too long, even for him."

"I can help look for him," Elanor volunteered. "I know all the good places to hide. I found some this morning!"

"I am certain that you did," Gimli sighed, unconsciously tightening his arms around the child. "And I would greatly appreciate your help, but my friend is many miles away. We would have to travel far and the road would be too long for you. You must stay here and look after your mother and father. They need you, much as my friend needs me. Yet you have my thanks for the offer, Elanor. It was generously made."

"Mommy says I’m good at helping," Elanor said, pulling back slightly and studying the dwarf’s face. "But you’re still sad." She was silent for a moment, her lips puckered with thought, and then a smile lit her face. "When I’m sad, daddy tells me a story and then I’m not so sad. Maybe if you tell me a story then you won’t be sad, either."

Gimli laughed quietly, his mood lifting momentarily, and he shifted so that he could lean back against a wide pillar. "A good idea. I think I would enjoy that very much. What kind of story would you like?"

Elanor thought about that for a moment, her small brow furrowing in concentration. "A story about your friend," she finally said.

"You want a story about my friend?" Gimli repeated, no longer certain that he could do this. But Elanor nodded firmly as she snuggled up against his chest, and Gimli realized that he was beaten. Though he was a victorious veteran of many battles, a single look at Elanor’s determined face told him that he could not hope to win this one. "A story of Legolas," he finally murmured, trying to collect his scattered thoughts that seemed to darken with each passing minute. "Well, little one, Legolas is an elf. And elves are…elves are different. They’re not all there, if you understand me. But Legolas…Legolas is a very special elf for all that he can be the most irritating, annoying, stubborn, and foolish being on Middle Earth."

"What’s _irritating_ mean?"

Gimli smiled as several memories suddenly sprang to mind. Perhaps this could be entertaining after all. "Listen closely, Elanor. Listen and I shall tell you a story about an elf and a dwarf who ventured into a dark forest filled with strange, talking trees. And by the story’s end, you will know what _irritating_ means."

* * * *

Surrounded by darkness and pale as the moon that hung overhead, Aragorn swayed slightly on his feet as his eyes drifted shut. A soft moan escaped him, and then his knees began to buckle. Swift as one of the _Mearas_ , Elrohir leaped to the side of his foster brother and caught him, supporting the weakening frame and holding him upright.

"Northeast," Aragorn murmured, struggling to open his eyes. "They turn northeast for a bit, perhaps a mile. It could be even further, but my last sense of the trail was not clear. I will have to check again after we have journeyed a mile."

"Then we must see to it that you do journey a mile for some time," Elrohir said firmly, turning bright eyes into the treetops. "King Thranduil? Northeast for one mile. Estel and I shall meet you there in a moment."

A form moved in the darkness above, and the finely chiseled face of Mirkwood’s king was briefly illuminated by moonlight. "Time presses upon us, Elrohir. Do we know the trail beyond that mile?"

Elrohir gritted his teeth and wished fervently that Elladan had been able to stay with him. His twin had always been better at dealing with Thranduil than any other elf in Rivendell. Even their father, shrewd as he was, had never been able to quite match Elladan’s talent for subtle dissuasion and casual meddling when it came to Thranduil. And now forced to deal with the king of Mirkwood himself, Elrohir was coming to realize just how precious and rare his brother’s gift was.

"The trail must be checked again beyond that mile, King Thranduil," Elrohir eventually answered, "but Estel must be given a chance to recover. He has suffered the darkness to encroach upon his mind far too long now, and it is taking its toll upon him."

"I shall be fine," Aragorn murmured weakly, struggling to break away from Elrohir’s restrictive hold.

"Hold your tongue or I shall personally carry you back to Imladris," Elrohir shot back. "You are not fine, brother. You need rest and you need to reorganize your mental defenses. This darkness has completely sapped your strength."

Aragorn grunted and started to respond to this, but his eyes glazed over slightly and a look of confusion crossed his face. Sensing that the man was about to fall, Elrohir readjusted his grip and leaned Aragorn against his own body in order to better support his weight.

"Perhaps Elladan should be summoned back from Imladris," Thranduil suggested. "I remind you that two lives hang in the balance, and we have not the time to wait for King Elessar to recover."

"I remind you that Elladan is also recovering, King Thranduil," Elrohir said, tightening his grip on Aragorn as the king began to sway to the side. "He can no more confront the darkness at this time than can Estel. Unless you or one of the elves beneath your command is willing to make the attempt, then I fear we have come to an impasse. Patience and waiting are our only options."

"Patience and waiting have cost us too much in the past. We cannot resort to them now," Thranduil shot back. "If the mortal is incapable of trailing the Orcs, other measures must be sought."

"Such as?" Elrohir challenged.

"Dispatching teams of elves throughout the woods. If the groups were of sufficient size, the darkness would not overcome us and we would cover greater ground."

"But for what purpose?" Elrohir asked. "Think you that Legolas and Merry are still being held above ground and in the open? Nay, that will not be so. Not with one of Númenórean blood behind the attack. There is something planned in this, and should we separate, I fear we would but oblige he who orchestrated this great darkness. Nay, we must hold to this course, however long it may take. Only by so doing shall we discover the Orcs’ lair."

Thranduil was silent for a moment, his eyes dark as he studied Elrond’s son. "You have hunted Orcs before, young one," he eventually said, his voice quiet. "Your mother was taken captive and you were forced to free her. Tell me this, if you can. During what portion of her confinement did Lady Celebrían sustain her most severe injuries?"

Elrohir felt Aragorn stiffen against his side, apparently sensing the direction of the conversation despite the haze within the king’s mind. Tightening his grip on both his foster brother and his temper, Elrohir shifted Aragorn to the side and started walking, hoping to distract Aragorn by forcing him to move. "You ask a difficult question, King Thranduil," Elrohir said at length when Aragorn’s attention had left the conversation and moved to the task of putting one foot in front of the other. Thranduil trailed them as a silent shadow in the trees, and Elrohir fervently wished that this silent shadow would slink back to Mirkwood.

"Nevertheless, there is a purpose to the question, Elrohir, and so I ask again. At what point in your mother’s captivity did the Orcs do the most harm?"

"During the latter half of her captivity, just ere we slew the Orcs that guarded her," Elrohir whispered harshly, his mind now forced back through time to that horrid day when he and Elladan had finally found the place of their mother’s captivity. It had been a miserable, wretched experience, and one that Elrohir had desperately tried to forget.

"And why do you suppose that was?"

"Because they knew we were coming and sought to drive us to madness by her cries," Elrohir answered, stopping and closing his eyes. Aragorn stopped beside him and once again started to fall as the darkness overcame him. Sensing that his foster brother was on the verge of collapse, Elrohir sighed and then swept Aragorn into his arms, ignoring the weak protests that indicated that Aragorn was still somewhat aware of his surroundings. Searching for a suitable tree, Elrohir leaped into a set of low branches and found a sturdy limb upon which to prop the king of Gondor.

"You say that your mother’s torment was a direct result of your attempts to rescue her?" Thranduil asked, joining Elrohir on the lower branches as Elrohir tried to make Aragorn comfortable.

"Some of it," the half-elf conceded, his voice a quiet murmur as foul memories stirred within his immortal heart. "They also…they had…that was not the only time that they…" Elrohir shook his head and cursed his inability to speak of this. In truth, he’d never been very good at talking about this, and it was partially for this reason that he was still so haunted by the experience.

A hand upon his shoulder startled him, and he looked up in surprise at the king of Mirkwood. "My apologies, young one," Thranduil whispered, and in his voice was a strange note of compassion that took Elrohir by surprise. "I did not know the event was still so painful for you, else I would have chosen another example."

Because of a mixture of regret, longing, anger, and confusion choking his throat, Elrohir could not respond, but he nodded slightly in gratitude. After a few swallows, he managed to regain some of his composure and turned to Thranduil, his gaze empty and expressionless. "I trust you had a purpose in raising these memories, King Thranduil. Speak of that purpose, I pray you, so that I may feel that this has not been merely an exercise in torment."

Looking slightly uncomfortable—an extremely rare look for the king of Mirkwood—Thranduil grimaced and sighed. "It has been my experience—and I have unfortunately had quite a few experiences—that Orcs do not excessively torment a captive elf until that elf is on the verge of death or liberation. This is not always the case for there are exceptions to everything, but as a general rule, it holds well. Orcs wish to keep their prisoner alive for as long as possible so that they might prolong their sport. With this idea in mind, it is easy to see that our current strategy is folly. We draw closer to the Orcs’ lair by following their trail, true, but the Orcs will be expecting this and watching for us. The fact that they were able to find us earlier today is evidence enough of that. If we continue on this course and press too close for their comfort, they shall release their anxiety by visiting torment upon Legolas and the hobbit, and they will kill them both ere they allow them to be rescued."

"But Legolas and Merry shall surely die if we fail to find the lair," Elrohir answered, still trying to shove foul memories to the back of his mind. "And that is exactly what shall happen if we fail to follow the trail."

"Have you so little faith in the elves of Mirkwood?" Thranduil shook his head and hissed slightly in frustration and anger. "We fought against the darkness of Dol Guldur for centuries, unaided by the Three that sheltered Lothlórien and Rivendell. We know better than any how to deal with Orcs, for that has been our lot in this world. My warriors can recognize an Orc stronghold better than they can recognize their own homes, for in many cases, they have spent more time in the presence of the Enemy than they have spent in the presence of their family. Think, Elrohir! You know this to be true, and you know that I am right. We cannot follow the trail all the way to the dungeons themselves. At some point, we must leave the sure path and seek our own way so as to preserve the advantage of surprise. Why not now while we are delayed upon the trail?"

"Because we are not yet near the lair," a weak voice mumbled.

"Rest, Estel," Elrohir commanded absently, mentally wrestling with Thranduil’s logic.

A snort indicated Aragorn’s thoughts on this particular command, and before Elrohir could stop him, the king had struggled to a sitting position, clutching tightly at the branch beneath him but supporting his own weight. "You are correct, King Thranduil," Aragorn said, his voice slowly gaining strength. "We cannot pursue this trail to its end. But there are too many areas to search, and I fear the delay that it would cause should we leave the trail now."

Thranduil’s eyes flashed and he studied Aragorn for a good minute before finally releasing the man from his piercing gaze. "You may continue in the path of folly if you wish," he said to Elrohir, "but my warriors and I shall work at finding release for those who have been taken captive."

"I need only a moment, Thranduil, and then we may resume our search," Aragorn said quietly. "Patience."

The look of anger and frustration was growing in Thranduil’s face, and Elrohir found himself shifting closer to Aragorn in the event that the king of Mirkwood decided to lash out at the man. "We must work together in this," Elrohir reasoned. "Divided, we lose strength."

"But it seems that Rivendell is incapable of seeing clearly," Thranduil snapped. "This slow and methodical way is well and good when it serves its purpose, but the time has come for more decisive action."

"Perhaps," Aragorn murmured, swaying slightly but still managing to maintain his sitting position. "Yet through my reading of history, I seem to recall that this exact reasoning was used once before and with disastrous results. Was it not Oropher who refused to hearken to the counsel of Gil-galad and began the attack prematurely while the other elves opted for a slower siege and a more methodical form of attack? And was this not the cause—"

"Silence," Thranduil snapped, his eyes flashing dangerously. "You speak of what you cannot possibly understand. And what would you, the heir of Isildur, know of respecting counsel given by—"

"Enough," Elrohir interrupted, realizing that things were about to go downhill rapidly. "King Thranduil, I have no wish to argue this with you, for I have not the talent to do so. If you choose to take your forces elsewhere, that is your affair and there is naught I can do to hinder you. But I strongly urge you to postpone at least until morning. Elladan shall return then, and perhaps he shall bring word from Lord Celeborn, who is undoubtedly studying this matter. And discussions such as this will be clearer by the light of day. I like not the darkness that hangs over us, and I believe that it would be wise to wait on a decision to separate until the sun is overhead."

A rather tense silence settled over the three, and the anger sparking between Thranduil and Aragorn was almost enough to blot out the darkness altogether. At length, though, Thranduil turned away and nodded sharply. "For now, Elrohir, we shall delay. But my counsel stands and come morning, my warriors and I shall seek a different path. If you wish to join us in this, you are welcome, but if not, then I urge you to return to Rivendell. By following the trail of the Orcs, you put my son in jeopardy, and I will not allow you to do that." And having said this, Thranduil inclined his head and leaped upward, catching hold of a branch and twisting into the shelter of the treetops where he vanished from sight.

Elrohir sighed and tried to allow the tension to drain from his shoulders, but before he could do so, a rustling sound from behind caught his attention.

"Estel!"

"If Thranduil means to go ahead with this, we must make better progress tonight," Aragorn answered, struggling to his feet and nearly falling.

Catching his foster brother by the arm, Elrohir fixed a stern glower upon his face and forced the king of Gondor back down on the branch. "We will make no progress if you collapse as Elladan did. Rest a moment more and then we shall resume the hunt."

"I am perfectly capable of seeking the trail now and—"

"Estel, if you leave this branch, the consequences will be dire," Elrohir said firmly.

"I’ve heard better threats from hobbits," Aragorn retorted, struggling back to his feet.

Recognizing in his brother an attitude of extreme stubbornness that not even Elrond had ever managed to overcome, Elrohir finally gave in. "If you insist," he murmured. "But we shall make our way forward in the trees."

Aragorn blinked and frowned. "That is the slower way."

"Good."

"Elrohir, I—"

"We go by the trees or not at all," Elrohir said firmly, his own stubbornness coming into play with a vengeance. "Valar take you, Estel, for I will not endure much more of this. Now, we can do it my way and rejoin the others on the trail in due time, or you can sit here and recover. Which shall it be?"

For a moment, there was no response. And then Aragorn began to laugh. "A fine pair of fools we make, Elrohir."

"One fool there is at least," Elrohir snorted.

"You take after Elladan in that," Aragorn answered.

"And I believe that I taught you everything you know."

"As I said before, a fine pair of fools we make." Aragorn sighed and shook his head. "Let us stay in the trees, then, but let us make as much haste as possible."

"Or as much haste as you are capable of," Elrohir amended with a wry grin.

Aragorn laughed but gave no other response, for his attention was now focused on keeping his balance as he began to navigate the tree limbs. Elrohir sensed that the king of Gondor was recovering rapidly now that he was out of the misty shadows, but he kept a hand on Aragorn’s arm just in case aught should happen. They continued thus in silence for a bit, each lost in thought, and then Aragorn spoke, his voice quiet and anxious. "Thranduil is right. We cannot follow the trail to the lair itself. They shall know of our coming long before we can arrive to save the captives."

"But we have no way of knowing when to leave the trail and seek our own paths. Should we leave it prematurely, we could lose the Orcs entirely, and such a delay would prove costly."

"True enough, and therein lies much of the problem. But I feel that we are drawing close. Come morning, I think we may want to seriously consider Thranduil’s suggestion. Elladan may be able to better sense how close we are. We should confer with him."

"I doubt that he will know any better than you."

"Perhaps not, but I would feel better obtaining his opinion before deciding upon anything."

"As would I," Elrohir readily agreed. "Careful here. The branch is weak."

"Like ourselves," Aragorn murmured, moving cautiously and stepping only where Elrohir indicated he should step. "We are weak for we are not united. This must change."

"I am open to suggestions."

"As am I."

Elrohir sighed and shook his head. "Then I counsel that we speak no more of this until dawn. For we are both at a loss, and the night weighs heavily upon our spirits. Perhaps the sun shall see a change for the better."

"Or perhaps it shall only see more individuals with more questions," Aragorn muttered ominously. "But I will heed your words. Come. The night wears on, and I would seek the trail again."

 

__

Author’s Notes: Hey again! Here am I, back to answer a few questions that have cropped up. But before I do, thank you for all the reviews! I really can’t say that enough. You guys are the ones who keep me going, and I love all the comments, suggestions, and thoughts you bring up. Thank you so very much!

Next up, here are the latest in what seems to have become a mad rush to name the Mouth of Sauron. I had no idea what I was getting into when I idly wondered what his name might be, but the suggestions are hilarious! Jocelyn has actually met the Mouth of Sauron. His name is Tony Porter and he runs a restaurant in Gainesville. Jocelyn has given us permission to call him Mouthy, though. But Mari disagrees, claiming that a better name for him is Clarence. That one gives me shivers, though. Not because of its fearsome connotations, mind you, but because I now have this horrible mental image of the angel Clarence from "It’s a Wonderful Life" dressed up in this black shroud as the Mouth of Sauron. And lastly, on a less terrifying note, JastaElf thinks that Phil, the Prince of Insufficient Light, from Dilbert is an excellent name for Mr. Mouth. (Personally, I’m still holding out for Patches…)

And now, question time.

No, I do not plan on doing a romance between Legolas and anyone. I tend to laugh uproariously at romances and mock them ceaselessly, so I don’t think I could write one and take myself seriously afterwards. Not that I take myself seriously anyway, but…you get the idea. Right, so no romances in the foreseeable future. And apologies to all the romance lovers. Sorry, but I’m far too cynical a person to get romantic. But if you are in the mood for a good Legolas romance, I’d recommend Nebride’s series. One of the few romances I can read and enjoy.

The origins for all the Black Númenórean stuff are something of a mix, actually, both in this story and in the story Land of Light and Shadows (apologies for a shameless plug). Some of it is coming out of my own head, some of it is coming out of the Silmarillion. If you want to know about a specific thing, ask and I’ll track down the source.

Yes, Littlefish, I felt your wrath. It was freaky. :)

Concerning Galadriel and Celeborn, I’m working off of several legends that the professor himself wrote and adapted through the course of his life. I’ve tried to make the back history of Galadriel and Celeborn as vague as possible in order to support all the theories, but it’s not always possible. So if there are some discrepancies with my story and your own beliefs regarding this couple, my apologies. I’m just trying to hit a broad range of theories.

Finally, the point has been brought up that Elladan and Elrohir should not bear the title Half-Elven because their mother was a full elf, making them Three-Fourths elven. I fear that I must respectfully disagree with this claim. If you go with this interpretation and then trace history, you’ll find that the children of Elrond are actually Thirteen-Sixteenths Elves.

Don’t believe me? Watch.

Elrond is the son of Eärendil who is the son of Tuor (man) and Idril (elf). Thus, Eärendil is a Half-Elf. Then Eärendil marries Elwing. Elwing is the daughter of Dior Elúchil who is the son of Beren (man) and Lúthien (elf). So Dior Elúchil (not to be confused with Dior the ninth ruling steward of Gondor) is a Half-Elf who then marries Nimloth (elf), making his daughter Elwing a Three-Fourths Elf. Then Elwing the Three-Fourths Elf gets together with Eärendil the Half-Elf and produces Elrond (and Elros) who is consequently a Five-Eighths Elf. To finish the genealogy, Elrond then married Celebrían (elf) and out came Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen. And with a Five-Eighths Elf parent coupled with a full elf parent, the children are…(cue drum roll)…Thirteen-Sixteenths Elves.

Confused? Don’t worry about it. You can actually forget the entire preceding paragraph, because it really all comes down to what it means to be Half-Elven. The Half-Elven title doesn’t refer to lineage proportions but rather to the fact that Elrond and all his children have the choice to either become mortal or immortal. They’re caught halfway between two worlds, so Half-Elven. Why not Half-Man? I’m not as certain on this one, but I think that it’s because elf is the default. Until Elrond and company make their choice, they might as well be elven, so it makes more sense to refer to them by that.


	17. Rise Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

Celeborn was an elf of great strength and even greater endurance. One could not live through the hardships and the trials that he had without having the energy and the perseverance that he possessed. As such, Celeborn was unused to feeling weary or tired. He knew fear and anxiety all too well while grief and sorrow were both frequent visitors, but exhaustion was something else. Nevertheless, from time to time, Celeborn would become fatigued, and he now reluctantly conceded to himself that this was one of those times.

He was still in Rivendell’s library, sequestered among the books and the manuscripts that had grudgingly yielded a few answers to the questions that continued to plague his mind. Taking a small break from his research, Celeborn stood, stretched, and moved to the large, arching windows that looked out over the valley of Imladris. The world was still veiled by night, but an elven time sense told Celeborn that dawn was not far away. The sun would climb over the top of the mountains in a little over an hour, and the day would begin. By then, he had best be prepared with answers, for Arwen would return with persistence renewed.

__

Yet how shall I explain anything with what little information I have? It is still not more than a hunch. Only a possible idea that happens to agree with the facts as they are known. There is no strong evidence that what I now remember is happening to Legolas and Merry! The lord of Lothlórien groaned and caught his head in his hands in a most unseemly display of exhaustion. _By the Valar but I am tired!_

With a weary sigh, Celeborn turned slightly and leaned back against the window’s wooden frame, wondering exactly where his fatigue came from. It probably stemmed from the fact that he was not using his usual methods in pursuing answers but rather adapting Galadriel’s tactics and making them his own. It was working to an extent, but it was telling on Celeborn’s nerves. Had the investigation proceeded normally, he would have traveled to see the darkness for himself and then garnered information from all who came into contact with it. Depending upon what he learned, he might then have returned to the library or he might have lingered for further study. In any event, he would have never begun his search in the library with only the vague inkling that this had happened before. Yet this was exactly what had happened, and Celeborn decided that Galadriel was wholly to blame.

He seemed to sense a hint of laughter at this, and he grunted as he closed his eyes and tipped his head back. Doubtless his exhaustion was highly amusing to Galadriel, particularly because of its source. This was not a weariness of the body but rather of the mind, yet it was telling on Celeborn physically as well as mentally. Still, at least now he had a better idea of what they might be facing and could prepare for some of the problems that might arise if Aragorn and the sons of Elrond were successful in freeing Legolas and Merry.

__

And with Pippin, Gimli, and Thranduil to help them, Celeborn sighed, _Legolas and Merry will be liberated, or all our hosts shall die in the attempt. Those three in particular shall make certain of that._ The elf smiled rather mirthlessly and shook his head. When Thranduil caught up with the power that had taken his son, all of Arda would undoubtedly tremble. The son of Oropher had a temper that could put Sauron to shame, and despite what he might do or say, he loved his youngest son fiercely. In Celeborn’s opinion, he loved him a little too much, and his need to control Legolas and keep him from harm’s way had led to many of the arguments and ill feelings that seemed to have come between the two. And as for Pippin and Gimli…well, there were legends about dwarven loyalty as well as horrific tales regarding what happened to those foolish enough to violate said loyalty. And Pippin had appeared ready to take on a Balrog for the sake of his lost friend.

Celeborn sighed again and shook himself out of his thoughts. There was still much to be done and much needed in the way of preparation. Beyond that, he had to speak with Elladan ere the elf left to rejoin the others in the forest. It would be a busy day for all, if nothing else, and by its end, things in Rivendell had to be ready.

Quickly gathering up the scrolls and books he had used, Celeborn placed them back on the shelves and in the bins where they had been stored. Once all was again in order, the lord of Lothlórien turned and left the vast library. He had learned all that he could from the records of the ages, and it was now time to put that knowledge to use. Trying to ignore the weariness that clung to him like a shroud, Celeborn closed the library doors behind him and set out in search of Elladan.

* * * *

The early morning air had a bite to it and Pippin pulled his cloak firmly about himself as he hurried toward the Hall of Fire. A strange thing had happened this morning that was probably never to be repeated: Pippin had risen from his bed on time. Inexorably pleased with himself, the hobbit had met Elladan and some of the other elves upon the main porch exactly one hour before sunrise and had surprised them all with his promptness. While waiting for others to come, Lindir had reported that Sam and Rosie had spent the night in the Hall of Fire and were probably not yet awake. Pippin had immediately volunteered to rouse them, and Elladan, sensing the hobbit’s enthusiasm as well as his need to show off his rare punctuality, had easily given his consent.

Concern for Merry momentarily allayed, Pippin grinned to himself as he hurried through the quiet halls. He’d beaten Sam in waking, and now it was his turn to do the rousing. For most of their journey with the Fellowship, Sam had been awake long before Pippin, and there’d been more than a few quiet remarks on this fact from the normally unassuming gardener. During their stay at Rivendell before setting out on the quest, Sam had picked up the ability to rise with the sun, and he took great pleasure in making sure that others who did not wake so easily were very aware of his talent in this area. Feeling anticipation build, Pippin chuckled to himself and imagined what kind of face Sam would pull when he found out that Peregrin Took had gotten up first.

Finally reaching the Hall of Fire, Pippin prepared himself to give Sam some good-natured ribbing, pushed the doors open, and then blinked at what he saw.

On one side of the room, shadowed somewhat by a pillar, a sleeping Sam leaned up against the wall with Rosie’s head pillowed on his lap. A small collection of toys lay scattered about them, but their daughter was nowhere near her parents. Instead, she was on the other side of the room curled up in Gimli’s lap, her hands wrapped securely in his beard and her head cradled gently in the crook of his arm. A small smile graced her tiny face, and her sleep reminded Pippin of a peace and innocence that he had once known. Sadness and nostalgia flared briefly within the hobbit, and he thought back with longing to the carefree days of his youth before he had learned of Mordor and the Ring. A glance at Gimli drove home the lesson that he was not the same hobbit who had fled the Shire, nor would he ever be gain. Like Elanor, the dwarf was also asleep, his head lolling to one side, but there was a sense of alertness about him that spoke of his years as a warrior. His free hand hovered near his belt where his axe might rest during long journeys, and beneath closed lids, his eyes flickered and darted about restlessly. Even in dreams, Gimli was never completely at ease.

With a slight sigh, Pippin shook his head and momentarily dislodged his dark mood. He then turned his mind to the question of which sleeper he should rouse first. After evaluating his options, Pippin moved toward Sam because waking Sam was not usually hazardous to one’s health. Waking Gimli could sometimes be an adventure that made Bilbo’s encounter with Smaug sound tame.

Walking quietly, Pippin soon reached Sam’s side and shook him gently, taking care not to wake Rosie as he did so. "Sam? Sam, it’s time to go." Sam mumbled something and shifted, raising one hand to bat at Pippin’s arm. Pippin sighed and shook Sam again, harder this time. "Sam! Come, Sam, Elladan won’t wait forever."

The other hobbit grunted and blearily opened his eyes. He stared for a moment at Pippin as though certain he was seeing things and then shook his head. "What time is it?" he asked.

"One hour before sunrise," Pippin informed him cheerfully. "And you, Master Gamgee, are late."

Sam groaned and rubbed his face. "Who woke you?"

"No one."

Sam stopped and turned incredulous eyes on Pippin. "No one?"

"I am perfectly capable of getting up on my own," Pippin answered loftily.

"No, you aren’t."

"Yes, I am."

Sam sighed and shook his head, easing Rosie’s head off his lap and laying it down gently. "I don’t have the energy to argue this. Let’s get going." Sam lumbered to his feet, stretching as he did so, but then he paused and looked around. "Where’s Elanor?"

"I think she found a playmate," Pippin said, turning his head toward Gimli and nodding.

After a moment of shocked silence, Sam grinned and started to laugh. "Now there’s a sight I never thought to see. I sure wish Strider was here for this. He’d enjoy it, no mistake about that."

"So would Legolas," Pippin murmured, his mood darkening slightly. "Come on, we have to wake Gimli, and we’d best do it before any of the elves decide to come check on us. He wouldn’t forgive us for letting them see him like this."

"No, but you can bet that it would be a treat," Sam said. "Now, how does Legolas usually do this? I know there’s a trick, but I don’t know as we can imitate it."

"I think Legolas always wakes Gimli from a distance. Or at least, that’s the way he did it when we were still in the Fellowship. But we don’t have elven reflexes or an elven reach, so maybe we’d just better call to him."

"Will that wake him?" Sam asked.

Pippin shrugged. "We won’t lose anything by trying."

"No, I don’t suppose we will." Sam sighed and then moved across the room, stopping several feet away from Gimli and looking over as Pippin joined him. "Who wants to go first?"

"Gimli?" Pippin called, taking the initiative. "Gimli, we have to go. You have to wake."

A muted rumble was their only answer, and Pippin looked helplessly at Sam, hoping the gardener had a better idea. He didn’t want to go in and shake Gimli because the dwarf would occasionally wake in a foul mood and assume that any incursion into his personal space constituted an enemy attack.

"Gimli, we have to find Legolas," Sam spoke up quietly, and Pippin mentally kicked himself for not thinking to use Legolas’s name. "You wouldn’t want to miss out on a chance to rescue him, would you?" Sam continued. "Think of how much you can tease him about it later."

The dwarf murmured something in his sleep about elves and then shook his head slightly. With a deep breath, Gimli slowly opened his eyes and looked up, squinting sleepily at Pippin and Sam.

"Good morning," Pippin offered.

Gimli sniffed and muttered something about disrespectful hobbits, but then he seemed to realize that he had something in his arms. Glancing down at Elanor, the dwarf stiffened and then looked up at the hobbits again, an unreadable expression clouding his face. Not knowing quite how to react, Pippin held completely still and hoped someone else would take over the situation. It was Sam who eventually stepped forward and started things moving again.

"Elanor?" he called, and Gimli raised the child to a sitting position as she slowly woke. Bright blue eyes blinked open slowly and a yawn stretched her mouth wide as she arched her back and stretched luxuriously, still somewhat cradled in Gimli’s arms. Elanor then entwined her hands deeper into the dwarf’s beard and began looking about the room. "Hello, sweetheart," Sam said quietly as the large eyes eventually fell upon him. A smile broke over Elanor’s face and she wiggled out of Gimli’s gentle hold to give her father a hug.

"Hi, Daddy!"

Sam winced at her enthusiastic shout and glanced over his shoulder even as he returned the embrace. "Hush, Elanor," he said gently. "We don’t want to wake Mommy. She’s still sleeping."

"Oh." The little hobbit drew back and her eyes darted across the room to where Rosie lay quiet in peaceful oblivion. Her voice now lowered to the level of a child’s whisper, she turned back to Sam. "Mommy sleeps a lot, doesn’t she?"

"Sometimes," Sam answered with a small smile. "I think that she’s very tired today. Did you have a good sleep last night?"

Elanor nodded eagerly as Sam pulled back and stood, her golden curls bouncing on her head. "The bush told me a story about the irritating one."

Sam blinked. "The irritating one?"

Elanor nodded again. "He’s an elf," she explained sagely, her face solemn as though she imparted to them great wisdom. "They’re all irritating. But you can’t say that here, because there are lots of elves around and if you tell them they’re irritating then they become more irritating."

Pippin snorted, unable to help himself, and glanced at Gimli. The dwarf had an innocently bland expression on his face that turned Pippin’s snorts into laughter. He received a rather stern glare for this from Sam, who jerked his head back in the direction of Rosie, but Pippin noticed that the gardener was having a difficult time controlling his own laughter.

"Come on, Elanor," Sam said at length, his voice strained by hidden mirth. "Let’s see how Mommy is doing."

"The irritating one?" Pippin questioned as he and the dwarf followed behind Sam and Elanor.

"It is a fitting enough name for the elf," Gimli answered casually. "I saw no reason for withholding the truth from so perceptive and quick a mind."

"The bush and the irritating one," Pippin murmured with a shake of his head. "At this rate, at least in Elanor’s eyes, you and Legolas will have as many names as Strider."

"NO!" a small voice suddenly exclaimed. Jumping slightly in surprise, Pippin looked over at Sam who was now down on one knee trying to reason with his daughter.

"Just for the day, beautiful," the gardener was saying. "You’ll be in charge again and—"

"No!" Elanor said firmly, folding her arms tightly and assuming a look of extreme stubbornness that immediately reminded Pippin of Sam. "I’m coming, too."

"Elanor, you can’t come," Sam reasoned. "There aren’t any toys to play with and most of the time we’re just be walking about. You wouldn’t find it any fun."

"The bush will be there," Elanor pointed out, looking at Gimli for confirmation. When the dwarf hesitated, she raced over to him and seized his beard in a grip so strong it would have impressed a troll. "I want to stay with the bush!" Elanor declared, glaring at Sam as though daring him to defy her wishes. "He can tell me stories."

With both Pippin and Sam at something of a loss for words, Gimli sighed and picked Elanor up. "Peace, my little friend," the dwarf murmured in a voice so soft that Pippin was hard-pressed to hear him. "Peace." Moving over to the sleeping Rosie, Gimli knelt and set the hobbit child on her feet, smiling slightly as she pressed close to him. "I am truly sorry, Elanor, but I must go now and you must stay. In this we both have a duty. You remember the friend I spoke of? He needs me and I promised to stand with him in darkness and light. I must keep that promise, and I can’t keep that promise if I tell you stories. Do you understand?"

"But I can help you find him!" Elanor protested.

"Little one, this task is not for you. Your role lies elsewhere. If you are looking after your mother, then I need not worry about her and can concentrate on finding my friend. But if you are not here, then I will have too many things to worry about. Do you see now?"

Elanor’s large eyes were still filled with rebellion, but Pippin could see the beginnings of acceptance. She studied the dwarf carefully and then pursed her lips as though coming to a great decision. "If I stay here, will this make you happy?" she eventually asked.

"Very happy," Gimli solemnly confirmed.

With a reluctant nod, the little hobbit backed away and relinquished her hold on Gimli’s beard. "And you’ll find your friend? The irritating one?" Elanor asked.

"Valar willing, yes," Gimli answered with a few rapid blinks.

"Then I’ll stay here," she announced, looking rather satisfied with herself.

"Thank you," Gimli said. "I have no doubt but what you shall be of great assistance here in Rivendell. And now I must go, Elanor. I thank you for your help last night." He paused then as though about to say more but instead of speaking he swallowed, turned away, and walked out of the Hall of Fire, stopping briefly under the main door to send the hobbits a look that sternly warned them about the consequences should the details of this scene be shared with anyone.

"And I thought only Orcs could glare like that," Pippin muttered with renewed respect for the dwarf.

"I know I wouldn’t want to be on his bad side right now," Sam said, checking to see that Sting was secured about his waist. "I wonder if the Orcs know what they’ve gotten in to." With his sword firmly belted in place, Sam leaned over Rosie’s sleeping form and kissed her cheek gently before turning to Elanor. "You be good," he said quietly, brushing his hand across her brow. "I’ll probably be back tonight."

"With the bush and the irritating one," Elanor ordered sternly.

"I’ll try," Sam promised, his voice solemn. He gave his daughter a quick kiss and then stepped away, taking a deep breath before turning to Pippin. "I think I’m ready to go now."

"You could stay," Pippin pointed out as he started moving away from the family.

"No, I couldn’t," Sam sighed. "I traveled through most of Mordor, and I know what Orcs can do. I’ve seen the way they treat even each other. And I’ll not be leaving any of my friends to deal with their likes alone."

"We’re hardly alone, Sam. Half of Imladris is out on the hunt, as well as most of Mirkwood, Lothlórien, and everyone that Aragorn brought up from Gondor."

"Well, you never know as when another sword might come in handy," the gardener answered. "And anyway, I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t go, and I couldn’t face Merry knowing that I didn’t try to go after him with the others. I don’t care that I can’t fight like soldier or track like a Ranger. Merry needs help, and I’m here to give him what little aid I can."

Pippin nodded, knowing exactly how Sam felt. "Then let’s go," he said, clapping the other hobbit on the back. "If we hurry, you might even be able to catch a quick breakfast before Gimli and Elladan get too anxious about starting."

* * * *

The predawn darkness lay heavy upon Rivendell. The winds that usually blew out of the mountains and into the valley were strangely absent this morning, and it was as though all of Arda held its breath. _As though waiting for something_ , Elladan sighed to himself, resting his arm upon the hilt of his sword. Most of the elves had gathered now, and they waited only for the hobbits, Gimli, and a few other elves who were seeing to supplies. _But more than that, we wait for answers. And we also wait for consequences._

Elladan had not had a pleasant night. After aiding Arwen in seeing to the medicines, he’d attempted to seek rest. But his mind had been troubled, and when at last he drifted into dreams, the darkness followed him. After an hour of uneasy sleep, he finally woke and rose, sensing that there would be no rest for him. Instead, he’d strolled among the gardens and fountains, seeking solace in the company of the stars. It was not quite the rest that Elrohir had envisioned for his brother, but it seemed to be enough. The clinging shadows had faded and Elladan felt light and hope once again in his soul. But the darkness had not vanished entirely, and as the group prepared to once again set out on the hunt, reminders of what they faced were slowly draining the spirits of the elves.

__

It is high time we left, Elladan decided, glancing around at the elves who waited with him. _Should we delay much longer we shall manage to dim all our hopes ere we know the progress of those who hunted through the night._

"The promise of a new day is ever the promise of new hope."

It took a great effort to prevent himself from jumping, but somehow, Elladan managed it. He had been quite lost in his own thoughts and had not sensed the approach of anyone. Yet as he turned, trying to compose his face into a calm mask that belied his surprise, he found that a very unexpected elf stood behind him.

"Your father was very fond of saying that," Celeborn murmured, glancing toward the Misty Mountains. "He found great hope in the morning."

"My father was ever the optimist," Elladan said.

Celeborn smiled slightly. "And you do not share this?"

"My brother is wont to share it from time to time, and Arwen has certainly inherited this gift. For myself, though, I deem that fate is too fickle a mistress to trust in the light of the morning. Evil merely hides by day. It does not vanish."

"In that, you follow after Círdan’s philosophy. He found his hope in the evening, looking to the stars for guidance. Morning was an uncertain time for him." Celeborn fell silent, sharp gray eyes surveying the other elves, and then he turned back to Elladan. "I would have a quiet word with you for but a moment," he said, his voice soft but his tone firm.

"You have discovered something?" Elladan asked, trying to remember all that Arwen had told him the night before.

"Perhaps." Celeborn moved to the side and Elladan was quick to follow as the lord of Lothlórien slowly drew him away from the other elves. "It is by no means a certainty, but I believe I may have an idea as to what our foe intends," Celeborn continued, his voice low. "Still, I would like to be more confident of my guess ere I speak overmuch of it. Turn your mind to the Orc you confronted just ere you learned of the plan to waylay the Road. You mentioned that a fear of his master kept him from speaking. Tell me exactly what happened at that moment."

Elladan pursed his lips, wondering slightly at the request but nevertheless going back over his memory of the event. "I was forcing answers from him at the point of my sword, but he ceased to speak when I inquired after his master’s identity and purpose. It seemed to me that he was overcome with a great fear. He trembled and shook, almost heedless of my presence."

"And you say this was a lowly Orc from Mordor?" Celeborn asked.

"As well as a deserter, or so I believe. He knew the whereabouts of his company but was seeking other spoils."

"Yet he still had great respect for this master," the lord of Lothlórien murmured, narrowing his eyes. "He was willing to abandon his comrades, but he was not willing to betray the one who ultimately commanded him. He sacrificed his own life for a Black Númenórean who probably never acknowledged the creature’s wretched existence."

"It is obvious you see a conclusion in this reasoning, my lord," Elladan said, feeling the bite of impatience. "But to me your words are an enigma. Can you speak plainly?"

"I know not," Celeborn answered, seeming to now talk to himself. "Very little in this is plain. It is becoming clearer to me, and yet there is still just enough doubt…" He shook his head slightly. "Beware the darkness, Elladan. I doubt that there is a need to tell you this, but I must emphasize just how dangerous these shadows are. Open yourself to them with great caution. And when you are forced to confront them, remember and retain all that you hear and see."

"Arwen mentioned that you were studying the history of Númenor," Elladan said, hoping to draw out more information from his reticent grandfather. "Did you learn something from this search?"

"Nay, not specifically. But it did trigger my memory. It was something that Elendil told Gil-galad and Elrond, and Elrond later told me. I have not thought of this in years, and I doubt very much that it is specifically mentioned in any of the annals of history, for so many more grievous things were happening at the time. As such, my information is scant and has been obtained indirectly." Celeborn shook his head and sighed. "What know you of Amandil?"

Elladan frowned, surprised by the question, but nevertheless he quickly recalled what he could of Númenor and tried to answer Celeborn’s query. "Amandil was Elendil’s father, and it is said that he sailed to the Undying Lands in search of the Valar’s blessing. But he never returned from his voyage, and none in Middle Earth ever learned what became of him."

"What of his early years?" Celeborn pressed. "What of the years before he sailed? And even before he withdrew to Rómenna?"

Wondering exactly where this conversation was headed, Elladan turned his mind backward, digging through facts and rumors that had been buried by passing years. "He was perhaps the last of the Faithful to sit upon the council of the king. But when Sauron corrupted Ar-Pharazôn, Amandil was cast from the council. It was then that he retreated to his stronghold in Rómenna."

Celeborn nodded slowly and watched his grandson with careful eyes. "Then let me remind you of certain things, and by so doing, I hope that you, your brother, Thranduil, and Aragorn might be able to unravel this puzzle. Then shall we compare our conclusions, and perhaps independent evaluations shall prove all. Amandil and Ar-Pharazôn were great friends when they were young. And though Amandil had clearly allied himself with the Faithful, that friendship persisted for years until Sauron was released from his status as a prisoner of Númenor. Keep this in mind, Elladan, and also remember that Sauron stayed close to the king even after his influence over Ar-Pharazôn was clearly established."

"I know not what you hope for me to accomplish with this information," Elladan said, feeling extremely confused and hating it. "These things I knew already. Why do you bring them up again?"

"Why indeed?" Celeborn murmured. "For those answers, I fear you are alone. I will not help you lest I taint you with my own suspicions. I need another mind in this, Elladan, for I do not trust my own reasoning."

"As you wish, my lord," Elladan sighed, sensing that he would get nothing more from Celeborn. A stirring among the elves caught his attention, then, and he turned toward the house as the doors opened and three figures emerged. "Your pardon, grandfather, but the last of our company has now arrived."

"And you wish to depart," Celeborn said. "Go, then, but be wary. And think on what I have said."

"I shall," Elladan answered. "We all shall." And with that, he bowed to Celeborn and moved toward Gimli, Pippin, and Sam. "I trust you are prepared?" he asked.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Elladan, but I was wondering how we were going to find the others," Sam said. "It took us most of yesterday to get as far as we did in that darkness. Are we going to have to go through that again?"

"Nay, Samwise, we have taken thought for this. The trail upon the ground is hidden from us, but elves are not easily led astray in the wood, and we will be able to find the place where we last left our comrades."

"But what about beyond that?" Sam asked. "Will they send someone back for us? Or maybe they have someone waiting?"

"We have also taken precautions in this," Elladan answered, schooling himself in patience. "A trail should have been left in the trees by our companions, and we shall follow it to them. Have no fear, Master Hobbit. We shall not strand you in shadows."

"And now that your question is answered, Sam, let’s be off," Pippin said, anxious to start. "Are we waiting for anyone else, Elladan?"

"You three are the last. Your ponies are already saddled and stand with our horses, and we shall ride until we meet with the men of Gondor. The horses shall then be left in their care and the care of a few elves of our company while the rest of us continue on foot. I trust this is satisfactory?" Elladan asked with a slight twinkle in his eyes.

"As much as can be expected when dealing with elves," Gimli answered gruffly. "Now let us be on our way. The day grows lighter and I would rejoin the others upon the trail ere the sun rises over the mountains."

"Then come, friends," Elladan said, raising his voice so that he now addressed all gathered on the porch. "There is much to be done and little enough time for the doing. We ride to the aid of our companions, and may the Valar strike any that stand in our way."

The surrounding elves cried aloud in response to this, and as one they left the porch and mounted, a song of war and vengeance rising as the light of day began to creep into the valley. Attempting to muster hope from this display of unity and purpose, Elladan composed his face and raised his hand in farewell to Celeborn. The lord of Lothlórien returned the salute, but his face was grave and his eyes troubled. Turning away, Elladan tried to shove this image to the back of his mind as he spurred his mount forward and shouted to the elves behind him. But as they left Rivendell, Elladan could not quite shake the feeling that something very dark was at work. Something darker than any suspected. And this feeling persisted as the elves, hobbits, and dwarf vanished into the cover of the trees to merge with the shadows of the early morning.

* * * *

Legolas first became aware of faint whispers. They surrounded and engulfed him, yet he could not understand their words. At first, it could almost be likened to the sea longing, which was a constant presence in the back of the elf’s mind. But as time went on and the whispers continued, Legolas decided it wasn’t like the sea longing at all. The sea longing was somewhat pleasurable in a haunting sort of way, and it was capable of producing a bittersweet joy. But these whispers… The elf shivered. Their words were dark and cold, and though he did not comprehend what they said, Legolas knew they spoke of evil. He tried to shut them out of his mind, but when he did so, they seemed to close more tightly around him. A creeping chill filled his heart, and he seemed to teeter upon the edge of a precipice.

"Legolas?"

The elf gasped, feeling the dying embers of hope spring to life. Here was a voice neither imagined nor cold. For Legolas it was a lifeline, and he clutched desperately at it, following it toward consciousness much as one would follow a clear trail in a darkened wood. He groaned slightly as he tried to muster the needed energy, for the whispers were loath to release him. But eventually, after a bitter struggle, they seemed to give in and fade into the background.

But they did not go away.

Still painfully aware that he could hear these dark whispers, Legolas managed to open his eyes, and he found himself staring up at the concerned face of Merry Brandybuck.

"Are you awake?" Merry asked hesitantly.

"I am," Legolas sighed, pushing himself into a sitting position and shaking his head. The whispers were still murmuring in the back of his mind, and they were distracting as well as unnerving. "How do you fare, my friend?" the elf asked, trying to keep his mind off the voices.

"I’m still here, which I guess is both good and bad," Merry shrugged. "It means I haven’t escaped, but it also means I’m not dead. Which can also be both a good and a bad thing."

"Do not wish for death," Legolas said sharply, instantly remembering his newfound fear of death. "The situation is not so bad as to wish for that. We shall yet escape."

"I know," the hobbit sighed. He grimaced and looked away, not meeting Legolas’s piercing eyes. "They’ve left the cell door open again."

"Have they?" Legolas glanced over and saw that Merry was right. "I suppose we shall have to take this opportunity, then, and attempt to reach the outside world. I remember the way, I think. It will not take as long as it did last time."

"Legolas, I’m not hungry."

The elf blinked, wondering exactly what that had to do with anything, and then the significance of Merry’s statement sunk in. A hobbit was almost always hungry unless an extremely large feast had just ended. And a hobbit was especially hungry if he hadn’t been given anything to eat or drink for quite some time. Merry hadn’t. _Nor am I hungry_ , Legolas realized with a shiver. The last time he’d eaten had been in Rivendell, two days ago. And his thirst was now gone as well.

"What happened to us?" Merry asked, interrupting the elf’s thoughts. "What happened to us up there? Why couldn’t we escape? I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t move. I was too afraid of leaving the caves. The sunlight was actually painful. It was like…I don’t really know what it was like. What happened, Legolas? What was it? And why aren’t we hungry?!"

"I do not know what happened, Merry," Legolas murmured, getting to his feet and studying the open door of their cell. "Nor do I know what is currently happening. Do you…" He hesitated, unsure of his next words. "Do you hear whispers? Voices? Coming from the shadows?"

The hobbit frowned and cocked his head to the side. "No," he said at length, his expression unreadable. "What about you?"

"I…I am not certain." Legolas frowned and closed his eyes, trying to clear his thoughts. "I believe so. It is as though they linger on the edge of my mind, yet they are a constant presence. And they speak of evil, but I cannot understand their words."

"I do feel a…a darkness," Merry said, waving his hand vaguely. "But no voices. Nothing like that. Do you feel all right?"

"Given the circumstances, I feel as though I am well," Legolas murmured. "But we both know that is not true. Neither of us is well, my friend, for we do not feel a need for food or drink. Yet we have been given nothing to sustain us. And neither of us could abide the thought of leaving the caves when we last attempted to escape."

"It was almost as if I was obligated to stay," Merry said, sounding as though he spoke more to himself than to the elf. "But there was more to it than that. I was afraid of what would happen if I left. But I don’t really know what I was afraid of." The hobbit fell silent and studied the open cell door. "Why did they do it? Why did they let us get so far and then stop us? And why are they doing it again?"

"I know not, Merry. I know very little about our situation. But I fear that duty binds us in making another attempt at escape. If we do not, we submit to the darkness, and I shall not give in so easily."

"But if we don’t figure out what they’re doing and why, then we’ve already lost," the hobbit protested. "We can’t fight them on their terms, they’ve made that clear enough. So we have to figure out what their terms are and change them."

Legolas blinked and glanced over at Merry. "You are not the same hobbit who set out from Rivendell five years ago, Master Brandybuck."

"Are any of us the same?"

"Nay, I suppose not. Still, your words are words of wisdom, but I am at a loss as to how to go about seeking the knowledge we need."

"Don’t you have any guesses?" Merry pleaded. "Anything at all?"

"My suspicions are but grasping shadows," Legolas murmured, wondering if it was just him or if the voices were growing louder. "They have no basis. No foundation. There are no facts to back them."

"But they have to be better than anything I have because I don’t have anything!"

Legolas hesitated a moment, knowing that Merry needed something but uncertain of what to give him. He had several ideas, actually, but they were as stray arrows lost in the night, aimed with little care for direction and shot only for the sake of shooting. He was just as lost as the hobbit insofar as explanations went. And yet Merry was begging for something from one to whom he had looked for guidance. "I think," Legolas said slowly, choosing his words with care, "that we are meant to see our hopelessness. We draw nigh unto our goal only to be pushed back. They seek to break our wills in this, and in some ways, I would deem it to be more effective than physical torture."

"Then why did they do that, too?" Merry asked, his voice lowered to a whisper.

"For one, to allow the darkness entrance into our minds," Legolas answered. "For another, to satisfy the desires of the Orcs. It goes against an Orc’s nature to leave a captive elf whole and unspoiled. Not even the Mouth of Sauron can change the nature of his servants in that respect."

"But we were healed. Why?"

"Because we allowed the darkness to enter," Legolas said quietly. "It healed us. And using this gift, we made our way to the entrance of these caverns only to discover that leaving was against the will of the darkness that now holds us in thrall."

"So why are they doing it again? Wasn’t once enough?"

"Apparently not. Perhaps it is a test of sorts to see how much of a hold the darkness has. But I do not know, Merry. There are many things here that I do not know."

"I don’t suppose you’ve figured out what the purpose is behind all of this."

"Nay, and I fear to guess. But as I have already said, we must at least make an attempt to leave this place."

"I know," the hobbit sighed. "But I can’t help the feeling that this is exactly what they want us to do. And that doesn’t sit well with me. But I don’t have a better idea, and I don’t want to stay here. So I guess that means we should go."

Legolas nodded and moved forward, examining the open door and listening intently for signs that Orcs might be near. But as before, there was nothing. Legolas could not sense the presence of any enemies in the nearby tunnels, and had it not been for the voices that still murmured their dark words, it would have been completely silent. "Do you feel ready for this again?" the elf asked, glancing over his shoulder at the hobbit.

"No, but I don’t think I ever will. Let’s just get it over with," Merry answered, moving past Legolas into the hall. "Should we take the same way we took last time?"

"I do not know the other way," Legolas said. "I can at least guide us if we use the same path."

"Sam once told me that there’s something comfortable about routine," Merry muttered. "But I don’t find this particular routine to be very comfortable. Still, I guess we should take what we can get."

Not knowing how to respond to that and deciding that Merry wasn’t really expecting a response anyway, Legolas sighed and moved forward. He felt the hobbit fall into step behind him, and together, they once again braved the darkness of the tunnels. But this time, a stream of whispering voices followed the elf, and as he ventured further away from the cell, their voices became louder and louder.

 

 

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Author’s Notes:  
  
First of all, some points about Amandil, Elendil, Ar-Pharazôn, and the fall of Númenor. Most of my information is coming straight out of the _Akallabêth_ , which is purported to have been written by Elendil himself and can now be found in the _Silmarillion_. I’ve also drawn a little bit out of _Unfinished Tales_ as well as Appendix A in _The Return of the King._ So if anyone is interested in pursuing this topic (and I highly recommend it) there are your sources. But be advised that I am adding my own spin on the things that happened in Númenor, though everything should still fit into canon.

Also, some of you might be wondering why Celeborn is using the name Ar-Pharazôn rather than the name Tar-Calion. But I submit that since Ar-Pharazôn dared to set foot on the Undying Lands, the Eldar do not refer to him by his elven name. Think of it as a rejection of sorts, even though the fall of Númenor happened well over three thousand years ago. (3246 years ago to be precise, if I did my math right.) Elves have long memories and even longer grudges. Anyway, that’s my theory, so take it for what you will.

Next, there have been quite a few questions about what happened to Thranduil’s wife. I am pleased to announce that the entire story behind the fall of Mirkwood’s queen, Legolas’s birth, and Thranduil’s resulting grudge against the dwarves is making an appearance in the next chapter, so hold on to your curiosity until then.


	18. Breaking Points

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

This chapter is dedicated to Meg Thorton, a wonderful reviewer who inspired me to give Rosie a larger part far earlier than I had anticipated doing so.

*******

__

Loswaia stood before him, as beautiful now as she had been years ago when they first bound themselves one to another. Walking together hand in hand, she had laughingly commented that her swollen belly was hardly conducive to beauty, but Thranduil was quick to reassure her that she had never before been so lovely. And he was quite truthful in this. The queen of Mirkwood had given birth to five sons and two daughters—an unusually large number for the Eldar, but neither parent regretted the decision—and it always seemed to Thranduil that during the month prior to her appointed time, Loswaia glowed as moonlight upon the fair glades of northern Mirkwood.

It was a beautiful day with the sunlight filtering in through leaves as green as the trees could make them. A light breeze stirred the forest canopy and shadows and light played merrily upon the forest floor. The king and queen had walked far this day, venturing into eastern parts of the forest that had recently been freed of the fell spiders and their foul influence. The power of the royal family was now taking hold here, and the trees rejoiced while birds sang songs of praise and happiness. With a smile, Loswaia lifted her voice and joined them, adding her rich alto to the ever-changing song of life. Thranduil could not remember a more perfect day.

But the day’s beauty was swift to fade. A cry from the guards who swept the forest before and behind the royal couple alerted them to coming danger, and though they quickly turned to flee, they were too late. A large group Orcs crashed through the trees as though fleeing danger, and by virtue of both haste and superior numbers, they overwhelmed the elven guards. Howls of accompanying Wargs announced the onslaught of evil just before the first of the enemy came into Thranduil’s view. A sharp ring of steal heralded the appearance of Thranduil’s sword, and he instinctively pulled Loswaia behind him, knowing that she was in no condition to defend herself. But as the Orcs and Wargs crashed into them as waves crashing into the shore, Loswaia was forced away from her husband in the rush. Overcome with a rage that had made Oropher both famous and infamous during the Second Age, Thranduil furiously battled his way through the hordes, sparing none that came within reach of his blade. Beside him fought the remnants of his guards, and together they cut a bloody swath in the attacking forces. Elven horns sounded loudly, their calls ringing frantically in the air, and at their beck, Mirkwood’s army rushed forth to the defense of its rulers. The press of Orcs and Wargs was eventually swept away, and Mirkwood’s king was saved.

But it was too late for Mirkwood’s queen.

Thranduil found her clinging to a tree in a vain effort to stay upright, bright blood staining the bark. He caught her as she fell, her pale hand clutching at the hem of his robe. His shouts for a healer were quickly answered, but the eyes that turned to him after a hasty examination were grave.

"Sire, she has gone into labor."

Thranduil’s breath caught and he stared at Loswaia in disbelief, watching the pain upon her face as agony from grievous sword and arrow wounds was compounded by birthing pains. The hand upon his robe tightened into a fist and she jerked her head back as she attempted to silence the screams that were building in her throat.

The next few moments were little more than a blur to Thranduil. He swept Loswaia into his arms and began to run, heedless of the healer who protested against moving her, for Thranduil was beyond reason. He knew only that Loswaia could not lie among the carcasses of the Orcs and Wargs. He ran for a mile or so before the healer caught up with him and begged him to lie the queen flat upon the ground. By now, she was moaning piteously in pain and had buried her face against Thranduil’s shoulder, seeking his comfort.

"Peace, beloved," the king whispered, pressing his cheek against hers as she began to shake. He laid her down with a gentleness that could rival the southern breeze. "Peace. This will be but a moment. We shall return to the palace and you shall be healed."

Loswaia could not answer vocally as pain had stolen her voice, but her arms wrapped themselves around her husband’s neck and she held him tightly, which was answer enough for Thranduil. Returning the embrace, he murmured soft words and soothed her as her traitorous body shuddered and tore with violent contractions.

It was not long before the wails of a baby were heard in the forests of Mirkwood, but the cries were weak, for the infant was a month too early. The healer’s frantic eyes darted between mother and child, at a loss as to who better warranted his attention. Thranduil was at an equal loss, not truly understanding what was taking place and refusing to acknowledge the possibility that death might not be far away for either of them.

"Thranduil?" Loswaia asked weakly, her voice a mere whisper in the king’s ear.

"A son," he murmured, kissing her brow and smoothing back her dark hair. "A beautiful son, my queen."

Loswaia smiled, but her face was deathly pale. "Legolas," she whispered. "Green leaf. I would name him after the trees under which we walked today. When you think of him, remember that earlier time and not this moment."

"Loswaia?" Thranduil questioned, his arms unconsciously tightening around her weakening form.

"I love you, my king. Never forget that." Her eyes fluttered and her head rested against Thranduil’s shoulder as life began to fade. "Raise him well. Legolas. Green leaf. He will…do much for the elves." And with these final words, she closed her eyes and looked no more upon Arda.

"Loswaia? Loswaia!" Thranduil began to shake the limp form of his wife, desperate to raise a response, but a hand upon his arm stopped him and the sad eyes of the healer met his.

"She lost too much blood, and her injuries were torn by the birth. Had I been able to bind them, then perhaps…" The healer trailed off and shook his head, turning his gaze to the whimpering child in his arms. "Sire, we must get the babe to the palace. He is not well."

Thranduil nodded numbly, still unable to comprehend what was taking place. The healer waited for instructions, but when the king remained upon the ground clutching Loswaia, he eventually sighed and took charge himself. Soldiers were dispatched to follow the Orcs while guards were set around Thranduil and the body of the queen. The baby was taken back to Mirkwood’s halls in haste where hopefully something could be done to strengthen his fragile body.

A week later, Thranduil learned that the Orcs and Wargs which had beset them in the forest had originally been making for the Lonely Mountain. An army of dwarves had routed them and driven them into Mirkwood.

…

"My lord?"

Thranduil jerked awake with a start, his breath coming hard.

"King Thranduil?"

Trying to get his bearings and recover from a dream that had haunted him many times for many years, Thranduil turned flashing eyes upon the archer who had spoken. "Report," he ordered, his voice somewhat harsh with embarrassment at being caught in such a distraught condition.

"Sire, Elladan has returned from Rivendell. You asked to be informed of this. I apologize, my king, if I—"

"Thank you, Ithildae," Thranduil said, interrupting the elf before he could cross into territory that the king did not wish to walk again. "Did you glimpse any of his party?"

"All who left last night are with us again, sire, including the dwarf," the other elf reported, his voice neither condoning nor condemning this.

The king frowned, the vivid memories from his dream coming to life in his mind and his deep resentment for dwarves rising to the forefront of his thoughts. "I see."

"Also, Lord Elrohir wishes to speak with you are your earliest convenience, my liege."

Thranduil’s brow wrinkled in surprise. " ‘At my earliest convenience’? Those were Elrohir’s words."

A ghost of a smile flickered over Ithildae’s face and he bowed slightly. "Nay, my liege, those words were spoken by Lord Elladan. He seemed to think that his brother was in need of some…tact."

Thranduil snorted. "There are at least some constants left in this world," he muttered to himself.

"Sire?"

"Inform Lord Elladan and Lord Elrohir that I will come shortly," Thranduil instructed.

"As you wish, sire," Ithildae said with a quick bow. He then turned and vanished from even elven sight into the thick leaves of the trees, but Thranduil could hear his stealthy movements and knew the archer was on his way.

__

And it is high time for me to follow, Thranduil sighed, trying to shake the last vestiges of a sleepy haze from his mind and better compose himself. _I have spent far too long dwelling on the past._ He took a minute more to steady his mind and calm his breathing before setting out through the branches, following the course that Ithildae had taken with the sureness of one who has spent several thousand years hunting in the forests.

He heard the group long before he saw them. The hobbits and dwarf in particular were as charging boars when compared to their silent companions. Even though they were currently motionless, their voices were loud and their breathing could easily rouse a slumbering troll. Thranduil shook his head as he drew nigh and began looking for places to drop out of the branches. It was beyond him how mortals had ever survived past the First Age.

The darkness below him was as a churning sea of shadows, and Thranduil hesitated for a moment. He did not wish to place himself in such evil, yet since the others were enduring it, it would be a sign of weakness if he did not join them. And if there was one thing Thranduil could not abide, it was weakness. Weakness was what had allowed the Necromancer to rule from Dol Guldur uncontested for so many years. Weakness was what had cost the Last Alliance true victory at the end of the Second Age. And weakness was something that Thranduil had sought to purge in his kingdom, subjecting both himself and his children to his rigorous efforts.

He was now situated almost directly above the dwarf, and he paused for a moment to study the creature. Broad shoulders supported the weight of a heavy axe that looked to be so badly balanced it might have been made by hobbits. Of course, the axe had been forged with a dwarf in mind and so the balance would be alien to an elf, yet Thranduil did not consider this. He was too overcome by a surge of hatred as memories of Loswaia returned, summoned by his recent dreams. With a shake of his head, Thranduil shoved such thoughts to the back of his mind, realizing that they had no bearing on their present course. This particular dwarf had nothing to do with his wife and had actually shown a great deal of anxiety about the possible condition of Thranduil’s son. But all the same, a dwarf was still a dwarf, and Gimli would bear careful watching.

Deciding he had delayed long enough, Thranduil shook himself free of memories and prepared to leap down, but at the last minute, he stopped and a sly smile stole over his face. Gauging the position of the dwarf, he moved over slightly until he had better aligned himself, and then he dropped out of the trees, landing only inches away from the stunted creature.

Gimli jumped, startled, but it was soon Thranduil’s turn to be startled as the dwarf, without a moment of hesitation, swung at the elf with the haft of his axe, aiming for the king’s knees. Thranduil’s sharp eyes saw it coming at the last minute and he was able to avoid it in time, but this sudden attack sparked his anger and he reached for his short sword even as Elladan and Elrohir sprang between the king and dwarf. Bereft of his brothers’ support, Aragorn was left to sway precariously on his own while the two hobbits stared in shock.

"Stand aside," Thranduil hissed, rage twisting the features of his fair face. "I will not be provoked in such a manner."

"To my mind, the dwarf was not the one doing the provoking," Elrohir returned sharply, his own eyes flashing dangerously.

"I have raised no weapon and made no threatening move," Thranduil shot back. "Until now," he added ominously, glaring at the sons of Elrond.

"I would beg leave to speak ere you take action you might later regret, King Thranduil," Aragorn spoke up from the side where he now leaned against a tree for support. His voice was quiet but there was an edge of authority in it that gave even the king of Mirkwood pause for thought. "Gimli did not mean to attack you."

"Has the dwarf so little control over his reflexes, then?" Thranduil demanded.

"Let him come, Elladan and Elrohir, and then we shall measure _his_ reflexes," Gimli urged, his hands still upon his axe.

"Gimli!" Aragorn snapped, throwing the dwarf a stern glare before turning his attention back to Thranduil. "Your pardon, please. The reaction was purely unintentional, I assure you. Your son and Gimli have made a game of this, and by dropping from the trees as you did, you triggered a reflexive response that has been honed nearly to perfection over the last five years."

"At least now I know where Legolas gets it," Gimli muttered, his eyes still upon the elven king.

"This cannot go unpunished," Thranduil said darkly.

"It can and it will, King Thranduil," Elrohir said, firmly standing his ground with his brother.

"You would dare to—"

"Peace, all of you," Elladan ordered, his voice calm but ringing with command. "We accomplish nothing by this. It was a grievous misunderstanding, but no harm has come of it. Let us put it behind us. Our petty arguments accomplish nothing here."

Thranduil did not like being told what to do, and he especially did not like it when the one giving him the advice was his junior by several thousand years. But regardless of age and experience, Elladan was right, and Thranduil was able to sense that. It rankled his pride and he promised himself that retribution would arrive soon in some form or another, but to his credit, Thranduil lowered his short sword and stepped back, watching the dwarf as closely as the dwarf seemed to be watching him.

"Thank you," Elladan murmured, his voice sounding both relieved and surprised. Apparently he had not expected to be obeyed.

"Has Elrohir told you of my intentions?" Thranduil asked, sparing no time for apologies or pleasantries.

"If I understand him correctly," Elladan said, "you wish to leave off following the trail and start a wider search pattern, splitting into several groups."

"I do not _wish_ to do so," Thranduil corrected. "I _shall_ do so. And you are welcome to join my archers if you so desire. But if you continue much further on this trail, then you shall force the hand of our enemy, and it may be that my son will be killed ere we can even draw close. And know this, son of Elrond. I will put a stop to your movements by whatever means necessary ere your actions put Legolas in danger."

Elladan blinked, as did everyone else gathered, but Thranduil held his ground firmly. He knew well the implications of his words, and he also knew the consequences of his actions should he follow through on his threat. But by all the Valar, he would not allow the children of Elrond to jeopardize his son’s safety in a foolish effort to make certain of their path. The trail might be followed with safety for a while yet, but it could not be followed much further. It was simply too dangerous for the captives.

"Then as my brother did last night, I would beg for more time," Elladan said at length. "I would beg for this day, at least until the afternoon. Estel and Elrohir shall be returning to Rivendell with some of the forces, and it may be wise for you and your elves to join them."

"You presume to dictate the actions of my archers?" Thranduil asked, injecting a note of steel into his voice.

"Nay, I do not," Elladan said, keeping his voice level and reminding Thranduil very much of Elrond in his most patronizing moments. "But I would offer advice and counsel in a situation that seems to have taken your judgement. You are too close to the peril, King Thranduil. Your concern for your son has clouded your mind."

"Watch your words, young one," Thranduil hissed, his hand unconsciously straying to the hilt of his sword, "or you will live to regret them."

"Begging your pardon, sirs and kings, but I don’t see as this is helping us at all," a voice piped up from behind Aragorn. "And I don’t see what staying out here in this shadowy mist is going to accomplish. To my thinking, we’ve more than enough elves here to protect us all from Orcs, and there’s no need for everyone to stay. Why don’t some of you get some rest? I know it did me bit of good."

Thranduil frowned, his eyes straying to Sam’s anxious face, and the king was forced to concede that the hobbit was right on at least one count. This current conversation was doing no one any good, least of all his son. Going back to Rivendell, though, was out of the question, for Thranduil would sooner allow dwarves to raid his treasury than abandon this hunt while his son was still missing. But perhaps Elladan’s proposal of one more day was plausible. It was certainly stretching the limits of safety, but if they could be that much more certain of their direction and destination…

Shifting his eyes back to Elladan’s watchful face, he turned the matter over in his mind. By nature, he was not a very patient elf and he had never been very good at taking the advice of others, but a small voice in the back of his mind was strongly urging unity. Thranduil could sense the attempts by the shadows to divide them, and perhaps it was best to thwart the enemy in this before moving forward. "Very well," he murmured at length, his voice carrying an unmistakable warning about making too much of this concession. "I give you until mid-afternoon. No more! At that time, my elves and I shall no longer follow the trail but take up our own paths. And if you value your own necks, you will join us."

"We would be glad to do so," Elladan said, glancing back at Elrohir and Aragorn as though for confirmation. Something unreadable passed between the three, and then Elladan returned his gaze to Thranduil. "Before we begin this day, though, I have somewhat I would like to discuss with all gathered. Lord Celeborn seems to have discovered something that pertains to this hunt."

"He knows what we face?" Elrohir asked eagerly.

Elladan shook his head. "I am not sure. He was rather elusive when he spoke to me this morning. He told Arwen almost nothing yesterday, though he did give her some rather disturbing tasks."

"Tasks of what nature?" Aragorn asked, perking up slightly at the mention of Arwen’s name.

"She was to prepare sleeping draughts," Elladan answered, his voice a mixture of confusion, frustration, and fear. "And she was also to fashion restraints that might bind one to a bed."

"Restraints?" Thranduil echoed, his mind frozen with shock.

"According to Arwen, Lord Celeborn claimed that the measures were only for the sake of prudence," Elladan added, sounding as though he believed that about as much as he believed in flying hobbits.

"Lord Celeborn does nothing solely for the sake of prudence," Elrohir said quietly, folding his arms across his chest. "There is always a more immediate purpose in his plans, though prudence does contribute somewhat."

"Perhaps his purpose is to occupy Arwen?" Aragorn wondered, his voice carrying overtones of desperate hope. "She has now a sense of the passing years that can be vexing in times of crisis when minutes slow to a crawl. Perhaps Lord Celeborn thought to give her tasks that might distract her."

"Perhaps, but tasks including sleeping draughts and bindings? I find this unlikely. In any event, if his intention was to set her mind at ease then he failed. His vague words and warnings have only heightened the sense of worry in Imladris," Elladan answered.

"You have told us what Celeborn said to Arwen," Thranduil noted, keeping a close watch on Elladan, "and it seems to be of little aid. Would you now tell us what Celeborn said to you this morning?"

"Little enough," Elladan sighed after a moment of hesitation. "But he bade me think on the fall of Númenor. Specifically, he reminded me of the friendship between Ar-Pharazôn and Amandil, both before the capture of Sauron and immediately afterwards."

"Strange," Elrohir murmured, his brow furrowing. "Why should he mention that?"

"It obviously has something to do with our current situation," Pippin interjected, sounding as though he was getting bored. Until this point, Pippin had been silent, but the day was passing and the hobbit looked anxious to start getting underway again.

"True enough, Master Hobbit, but what is the nature of the relationship between what we face here and what they faced there? That is what we must uncover," Elladan answered.

"Mayhap we can uncover it as we march," Gimli said, his voice laced with impatience.

"Did he say aught of Sauron’s hold over Ar-Pharazôn?" Thranduil suddenly asked.

Elladan blinked and his eyes went blank for a moment as he recalled his conversation with Celeborn. "He did, King Thranduil. And he reminded me that Sauron stayed close to Ar-Pharazôn even after his influence had been established."

Thranduil nodded slightly and stepped back, separating himself from the others as they continued their discussion, though a few sent curious glances his direction. But he ignored them all, for an impossible idea had occurred to him. It fit the situation and explained the motives, yet it was so farfetched that Thranduil was loath to trust it. Beyond that, the evidence for its support was circumstantial at best. And in any case, he was reluctant to broach this particular possibility with a dwarf and the heir of Isildur standing about. Valar knew what they would make of it. But even so, the facts fit. It was something he had heard once from Elrond around the beginning of the Third Age, and in turn, Elrond had heard it from Elendil. At the time Thranduil had thought it to be naught but a rumor. An excuse that claimed the fall of man was due to more than their own pride. But now…

"King Thranduil?"

Shaken from his thoughts and trying to quickly cover the fact that he had been inattentive, Thranduil looked up and discovered that everyone else was watching him.

"King Thranduil, Aragorn and Elrohir will now be departing for Rivendell. You and your elves are welcome to accompany them since we shall only be following the trail this day. Come night, we may—"

"My elves and I shall be staying here," Thranduil announced, his voice firm and unyielding. "And we shall not be following the trail all day. We shall cease come mid-afternoon."

Elladan frowned slightly. "It may be wise to rest before—"

"We rest in the trees," Thranduil interrupted. "And what rest we take is sufficient for us. We shall be staying. And I will thank you to stay clear of matters over which you have no sovereignty."

Elladan sighed and glanced at Elrohir and Aragorn, both of whom shrugged. About then, Thranduil realized just how weary the other two looked. Elrohir was weaving slightly on his feet and Aragorn’s eyes were foggy and glazed.

"Then if we are set on who stays and who goes, let us continue!" Gimli said, his gruff voice breaking through the silence that had descended upon them. "If we must stand in this darkness, let us make it worth our while."

"You will watch yourself?" Elrohir asked, fixing a pointed gaze at Elladan.

"Yes, if you return to Rivendell," Elladan answered. "And I have the hobbits and Gimli to aid me, for they shall also stay upon the ground. We have discussed this already while journeying here."

Elrohir nodded reluctantly and then turned to Aragorn. "Well, brother, I think we must be off, for you look as though you need to rest."

"No more so than you," Aragorn said, finally giving in to his body’s demands and allowing a large yawn. "We shall think on this matter of Ar-Pharazôn, and hopefully we shall discover some answers in Rivendell."

"Then fare you well," Elladan said. "Valar willing, we shall progress far this day, and come night we shall progress even further."

With this, the group separated, but Thranduil was now deeply troubled. He retreated back into the trees, gave orders for his elves to follow Elladan and the others from Lothlórien and Imladris, but he himself stayed behind for a while. He had not thought upon the events of Númenor for quite some time, yet now the rumors and whispers regarding its fall came foremost to his mind. While he was wont to blame it entirely upon the arrogance and failings of man, Thranduil knew in his heart that the truth of the matter went much deeper than that. It was the hidden intricacies and weavings of Sauron that now filled his thoughts, and if what he suspected was true, then his son and the hobbit were in far more danger than any of them had ever suspected.

* * * *

To say that Arwen was embarrassed would be something of an understatement. Arwen was actually quite mortified. For centuries upon centuries, she had risen with the sun and thought nothing of it. Sometimes she had not slept at all during the night, and not once did it occur to her that mortals would look upon this with both wonder and envy. It was simply the way she was. It was the way every elf was. Even after meeting Aragorn and learning more of the ways of mortal sleep, Arwen had never really made the connection between her own habits and the habits of her betrothed. She did sometimes shake her head in astonishment at just how much rest mortals seemed to need, but she never thought any more of it than that. Part of the reason for this was the fact that Aragorn was also an early riser. She could remember very few times when her husband had not been up with the sun. And since his habits were so similar to her own as an elf—with the exception that he usually found _some_ sleep during the night while she would at times take none—Arwen never thought to compare further.

Unfortunately, this had proven to be something of a failing now that her mortal body demanded more and more rest. During one of her first days as queen of Gondor, she woke to find that the sun was several hours past rising and that the last of the breakfast had already been served. Furious and enraged, Arwen had lashed out unwittingly at Aragorn for this. In turn, Aragorn had been understanding to the umpteenth degree, not flinching once at Arwen’s harshly thrown words and waiting until she had calmed enough to discuss the matter. Eventually, Arwen had apologized rather profusely, but Aragorn had shrugged it all off, unintentionally making Arwen feel even worse. From that time forth, she had tried to ensure that she retired to bed in time for her mortal body to get as much rest as it required. This was not always possible, of course, for as queen, her presence and her mind was often needed late at night. More than once she had worked with Aragorn over the drafting of a treaty until the stars began to dim and morning dawned over all. But as a general rule, she tried to ensure that when Aragorn rose from bed, she rose with him.

That had not been the case this morning, hence Arwen’s extreme embarrassment. She rose late and discovered that she had missed the departure of Elladan and his company by almost three hours. Given the amount of stress and frustration she had labored under, it should have come as no great surprise that her body needed the extra rest. Beyond that, the night had been a late one, and she really wasn’t sure when she had retired for bed. But Arwen was still fairly new at this mortal game, having only had five years of practice now, and her sense of embarrassment was unusually keen because she was again in Rivendell where everyone else was very prompt in rising with the sun.

Beyond being embarrassed, Arwen was also somewhat annoyed. Celeborn seemed to have disappeared on her, and she had been promised answers. She had never known the Lord of Lothlórien to renege on his word, but there was always a first time for everything and these circumstances seemed to be replete with firsts. _But I swear as queen of Gondor and daughter of Elrond, I will find my grandfather and force answers from him_ , she vowed mentally. _He will not escape me again._

"Lady Arwen?"

A cautious voice from behind caught her musing mind and pulled it back into reality, reminding her that others were about. Fixing a smile upon her fair face, Arwen turned and bowed slightly. "Good morning, Rose Gamgee," she said. "How do you fare this day?"

"Better than some, I dare say, my lady," Rosie said as she shifted her feet, apparently uneasy with Arwen’s presence.

Now looking upon the hobbit with a genuine smile of amusement, Arwen stifled a laugh and gestured to a pathway that led into one of Rivendell’s many gardens. "Will you accompany me? I sense you have somewhat to say, and mayhap it can be said as we walk."

"Yes, that will be fine," Rosie answered hurriedly.

"Where is fair Elanor this morning?" Arwen asked as they started off.

"Sam didn’t put her down when he ought to have, and so she had something of a late night," Rosie said with a weary sigh. "I hope she doesn’t become cross this afternoon because of it, or I’ll have words for that husband of mind. Elanor’s sleeping in our quarters right now, but an elf offered to fetch me when she began to wake and I had to accept because I couldn’t just stay in my room. Not with everything that’s happened."

"I understand," Arwen said quietly. "I remember well the day I beheld my first Orc. Such hideous evil is not easy to comprehend, and I would that you had never been faced with it."

"I’m all right," Rosie hastened to reassure her. "I dealt with it, and I did have some help. I might have a few unpleasant dreams still, but I’m feeling much better about everything. And that’s part of why I came to see you. My lady," she quickly added, suddenly horrified at the prospect that she had been speaking in such a familiar fashion.

"As I told you before, dear Rose, I am but Arwen to you and your husband," the daughter of Elrond said with a gentle smile. "All of Middle-earth owes Sam a great debt, and I am humbled to be in the presence of his chosen one. You are bound to a very brave hobbit, Rose."

"Oh, I know," Rosie said. "I knew that before he went off, though he never did believe me when I told him so. And come to think of it, he still doesn’t believe me. But that’s not what I wanted to speak to you about. I came to find out if there was anything I could do in this place. To help, I mean. I know I shouldn’t be out with Sam and the others. I’m not made for that sort of thing. But I can do other chores here that might help them there."

Arwen blinked and studied this simple, country hobbit standing before her. Gandalf had indeed spoken truly when he claimed that hobbits were amazing creatures. "Rose Cotton Gamgee, we of Imladris would be honored to receive your assistance," Arwen said. "Come, and we shall find you things to do." And so taking the hobbit by the hand, Arwen passed into the vast mansions of Rivendell, her previous embarrassments and anxieties forgotten and her fears for the future left in the past for now.

* * * *

Merry would be the first to admit that he didn’t know much about the world beyond the Shire. He knew far more than did most of his fellow hobbits, but he knew far less than did Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, and many others that he could name. Merry knew that different cultures and customs prevailed in many parts of Middle-earth, and he knew that some of these cultures and customs were vastly different from what he was familiar with in the Shire. He had learned about some of them, particular those customs associated with Gondor and Rohan, but he knew that there was still much to learn about the various peoples of Middle-earth. Yet despite his ignorance, Merry was fairly certain that at least one particular custom held true no matter the culture—If person number one wanted to lead person number two to a particular destination, then person number one usually walked slightly ahead of person number two.

Having convinced himself that this was a solid principle cutting across most social and cultural differences, Merry turned to his current situation and decided that he had a dilemma of sorts. Legolas was supposed to be leading the way, but instead, the elf was constantly falling behind.

This was something of a major problem for Merry because the hobbit had no idea of where he was going. He’d been counting on the elf to find the main entrance again, but this wasn’t going to happen if Merry had to keep choosing which way to turn. Legolas didn’t seem at all inclined to aid him in this, and whenever they came to a juncture of any kind, the elf’s feet would begin to drag and Merry would be forced to decide upon their next path. The hobbit was now of the opinion that they were starting to wander in circles.

But the problems didn’t stop there. Upon occasion, Legolas would come to a complete halt for absolutely no reason. And because the elf was usually behind the hobbit, sometimes it took a minute or so for Merry to realize that he was no longer being followed. Once he did realize that Legolas had stopped, it took even longer to backtrack and find the elf. And when Legolas was found, he was usually staring off into space and whispering in a tongue that Merry didn’t recognize. The hobbit had asked Legolas if he was stopping to listen for Orcs, but each time, the elf had shaken his head. When pressed for an explanation, Legolas had shrugged slightly and murmured that he didn’t know what had prompted him to stop. Merry was seriously concerned by this vague answer, and as their hapless journey continued, his concern grew. Legolas did not look well. His color was off, his eyes were glossing over, and he was becoming more distant and distracted with each step they took.

"Merry?"

Abruptly startled out of his thoughts, Merry jumped in surprise and let out a small yelp. Since leaving their cell, Legolas had not initiated conversation. He would respond if questioned, but even then, his answers had been short, glib, and fairly useless. Turning around curiously, Merry discovered that Legolas had once again stopped, but this time, he was leaning back against a cave wall as though looking to brace himself.

"Are you all right?" Merry asked, moving to the elf’s side and tentatively touching his arm.

"They have returned," Legolas hissed, sinking down and pulling his knees up to his chest. "They are here again. There are too many!"

That was not exactly what Merry had been expecting to hear. It was certainly not what he desired to hear. "The Orcs?" he asked fearfully, glancing up and down the dark tunnel.

"Nay," Legolas murmured with a violent shake of his head. "Nay, it is the voices. I thought myself rid of them, for they grew quiet after a bit, but now they have returned. They are here. And there are more of them."

"Here where? Do you mean here in this tunnel or here in your head?" Merry pressed, wishing he could help the elf but having no idea as to what might be done for him.

"By the Valar, I no longer know!" Legolas’s head arced back and he stiffened as he squeezed his eyes shut. "But their voices…they speak of…nay, I cannot say it! I will not listen!"

"Legolas!" Merry hissed, struggling to keep his voice down. "Legolas, we’re alone. There’s no one here."

Legolas’s only answer was a groan as he fell over onto his side and curled into a tight ball, his hands pressed against his temples. He began whispering, but the language was unknown to Merry and he could not understand what the elf was saying. Hesitantly, not knowing what it was that Legolas faced, the hobbit put a hand on the elf’s shoulder and shook him gently in the hopes that he would get some kind of a response.

"Legolas?" he queried softly. "Legolas, we have to keep going. Legolas? Can you hear me?"

The elf groaned again and shook his head. "Run, Merry," Legolas whispered at length, his voice strained. "Run. Flee this place."

Merry frowned and tightened his grip on the elf’s shoulder. "I’ll not leave you!" he said forcefully. "I wouldn’t leave you on the Road and I certainly won’t leave you here."

"You must," Legolas insisted as he started to shake. "One of must escape."

"We’ll escape together or not at all! I won’t abandon you, Legolas."

"Then leave and come back with help," Legolas pleaded, opening his eyes and fixing Merry with a gaze that sent shivers down the hobbit’s back. "I can go no further in this place, Merry. The darkness holds me back and bids me wait here. I cannot disobey it. It is too strong. He was right. He was right about everything."

"Who?!" The hobbit had now forgotten the dangers of raising his voice and was very tempted to shake the elf who huddled pitifully before him. "Who was right about what? You’re not making any sense, Legolas!"

"The Mouth of Sauron," the elf whispered. "The darkness is within me. I can feel it twisting my mind. I have no will. The decision to leave is no longer mine to make."

"You don’t believe that!" Merry shouted. "I know you don’t believe that. Of all of us in the Fellowship, you were the one who never let things bother you. Gimli was the only one who could get under your skin, and the Mouth of Sauron is no dwarf! You can’t let him do this to you. You’re stronger than that; I know you are!"

"Leave, Merry," Legolas murmured, hugging his knees into his chest as his trembling increased. "Leave while you still can."

"Not while you’re still here," the hobbit answered stubbornly. "You can break through this. You’re an elf! This should be easy!"

Legolas gave a wordless cry and hissed as if in pain. Despite the chill of the underground caverns, a warm flush was creeping into the elf’s cheeks as though he was fevered, and his shaking form was almost nearing the point of convulsions. "Merry, I know not how much longer I can resist. But I cannot leave this place under my own power. We need aid and you shall have to bring it, for I cannot. Please, Merry. Do not force me to beg!"

Merry seized Legolas by the shoulders, hoping to still the elf’s shuddering while at the same time informing Legolas that the hobbit was not going anywhere without company. "Don’t waste your breath by begging," Merry told him firmly, pressing him against the wall and pinning him with his own bodyweight. "We’ll ride this out and then we’ll be on our way. I know we will. Just hold on a bit longer. Try to fight back. Are you listening to me, Legolas? Legolas?" The hobbit tried to make out the elf’s face in the dark torchlight, and he shivered at what he saw. Legolas’s eyes were closed again, his face was twisted in pain, and his hands were clenching into fists. "Legolas!" Merry shouted, trying desperately to get through to the elf. "Legolas, you have to fight this! I won’t abandon you, so don’t you abandon me!"

Legolas suddenly let out a cry so shrill that it hurt Merry’s ears, and then the elf went limp. His entire body relaxed, his head dropped to the dank floor, and his breathing quieted. So sudden was the change that Merry jumped away as though fearful of touching Legolas. Shaking his head and furiously berating himself, the hobbit crept back and once again took hold of the elf’s shoulder.

"Legolas?" he called, lowering his voice once more. "Legolas?"

There was no answer and the elf was disturbingly still. It was especially unnerving considering that he had been convulsing and writhing only moments before while trying to block out voices that only he could hear. Becoming even more anxious, Merry hastily sought a pulse and watched the elf’s chest. He found the heartbeat to be rapid and erratic while Legolas’s breathing was swift and shallow, but the elf was still alive. That was important. As Bilbo had been fond of saying, if there was life, there was hope.

__

But there would be far more hope if he was awake, Merry sighed to himself, glancing about the halls and wondering why none of their captors had descended upon them. They had made enough noise to give away their presence to all of Eriador. But the caverns were silent and empty. Hobbit and elf were still alone.

__

Alone is great, but even if we’re safe for now, we won’t be safe for long, Merry thought despairingly. _But I can’t do anything for Legolas on my own._ He stared at the elf and ran a number of jumbled ideas through his head, yet none were plausible. The hobbit just didn’t know enough to form anything remotely resembling a coherent plan or a possible solution.

__

Perhaps I should leave. If I left, I could find help and bring it back.

Merry abruptly froze while his fear rose exponentially. That last thought had not been his own; he was sure of it. He was absolutely steadfast in his decision to stay with the elf. Why, then, should the idea of leaving cross his mind?

__

But Legolas was right. I can do nothing for him. It would be best if I found our friends and brought them here.

The hobbit decided that he had finally snapped. Captivity had gotten the better of him and his mind was shattering before his very eyes. "No," he told himself aloud. "No, I’m staying right here with Legolas. I’m not about to leave him."

It was then that Merry noticed the growing chill in the air. Gimli insisted that underground caverns were very consistent in temperature, but apparently that didn’t hold true here. The tunnel was becoming steadily colder and the flickering torchlight was dimming rapidly. Legolas had faded into a mere shadow against the wall, and he would soon be lost completely in the darkness.

__

I must leave! Legolas needs help that I can’t give.

"Who are you?!" Merry demanded, somehow managing to keep his voice quiet.

There seemed to be a pause, though Merry could not say how he knew that, and then the voice was back, dropping its masquerade and speaking to the hobbit directly. _You must flee. It is your only means of salvation!_

"I don’t know who you are and I’m not listening to you!" Merry said firmly, covering his ears and shutting his eyes. "And I’m not leaving, either."

__

The elf asked you to leave. You dishonor his wishes.

"He just doesn’t want me to be in danger," Merry answered, backing against a wall in spite of himself.

__

He is more knowledgeable than you are. He knows you can do nothing on your own. He knows you are weak. Are you now also a coward? A traitor? The elf knows that there must be help from other sources, and he knows that you are the only one capable of bringing that help to him. Yet you refuse to go. You doom him. You condemn him to an eternal life of shadows. In every way that counts, you have betrayed him!

"I haven’t betrayed him!" Merry shouted, forgetting the need for silence. Yet even as he said this, he doubted. Was this voice right? The hobbit was all too aware of his own failings. In fact, one of his darkest fears centered around a nightmare in which he was powerless to help his friends. This feeling of helplessness was becoming very strong, for Merry knew that he could not take Legolas from the cave by himself. But to leave the elf here in the clutches of the Orcs…alone…

__

If you do not go, there is no hope. There is no chance for freedom. At least by leaving you ensure the possibility that there might someday be an escape for him.

"I’m his friend and I choose to stay by his side," Merry said, but his voice was no longer firm and confident. A sense of shame and guilt was creeping upon him and he shivered as the caves grew even colder. Was it true? Did he really sentence Legolas to death in the darkness? Had he betrayed him?

__

You are afraid. You fear to face the shadows on your own. You cannot save Legolas because you are afraid! You are too weak to help him yourself, and you are too frightened to find others that might aid him. He shall die because of you!

"That’s not true!" Merry hissed, sliding down the wall and pulling his knees into his chest. "That’s not true! I’m not afraid. I can save him!"

__

Coward!

"No!"

__

If you were brave enough, then you could save both yourself and Legolas!

"I will save us!" Merry cried. "I will!"

__

You will save no one because you are afraid! He will die in torment, and he will die knowing that you could have saved him but chose not to because you were afraid!

"That’s not true!" the hobbit screamed.

__

Coward! Traitor!

"I’m not afraid!" Merry sobbed to himself, oblivious to the dark figures that began to creep toward them. "I didn’t betray him!"

__

If you had left when given the chance, you would be on your way to freedom. And you would then bring back an elven army to liberate your friend. But you are a coward, Meriadoc Brandybuck. You are but a coward who can not face the darkness.

"I haven’t betrayed him," Merry mumbled to himself, shaking violently and completely unaware of the Orc the now loomed above his shaking form.

__

Because of you he shall be lost!

Sharp claws dug into Merry’s shoulders, and even as he fought the whisperings within his mind, he looked up in shock and beheld the sneering face of an Uruk-hai. The voice in his head cried out with undisguised contempt, screaming that Merry had been the elf’s only hope, and the monstrosity kneeling before him laughed, its horrible voice grating upon his ears.

It was too much for the hobbit. A physical horror stood before him. A mental nightmare sifted through his deepest fears. The paralyzing feelings of guilt and shame left him unable to comprehend anything other than his own inadequacies. And caught between inner demons and outer monstrosities, Merry’s mind mercifully shut down, blowing out the lantern as it left and plunging his world into darkness.

 

*******

 

****

Author’s Notes:  
  
Regarding the history for Thranduil, it’s completely out of my own head. We have almost no information on Thranduil’s wife in any of Tolkien’s work, but since the queen of Mirkwood is never mentioned, many have assumed that she is either dead or has passed over the sea. I’ve jumped on the bandwagon (conformity is occasionally a good thing) and decided that she perished. In my mind, it better explains the differences and the personality extremes that we see in Thranduil in _The Hobbit_. Tragedy can do that to a person. Or an elf. Anyway, take it for what you will, this is my explanation.


	19. Lifting the Veil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

Despite his ever-growing sense of fear and anxiety, Celeborn could not quite keep a smile from his face.

He stood unnoticed in a doorway that led out onto a small patio overlooking a cascading waterfall. Light streamed down upon the porch, filtering through leafy trees adorned with the fresh green that was solely unique to the spring season. From this place, one could look out into the valley and see the glory of an elven stronghold, fading though it might be. But the beauty and wonder of Imladris went completely unheeded by the two figures seated in the middle of the patio, and it was such an odd sight that Celeborn could not refrain from releasing a quiet chuckle.

Completely absorbed by their work, the refined queen of Gondor and a simple hobbit of the Shire carefully culled and preserved dried _ôlgalenas_ leaves from among a variety of healing herbs that had been found in Rivendell’s stores. It was something that Celeborn had never seen before, and considering how many years he had lived, that was rather noteworthy. It was a brief glimpse of peace despite the fact that these two did their work in preparation for a terrible possibility. It was a picture of unity and healing, and Celeborn felt some of his worry fall away. Surely there was still hope in the world if there was still room for such tranquility.

Unfortunately, though, Celeborn had learned that peace and tranquility could not last, even in the sanctuary of Rivendell. And so he reluctantly stepped out onto the patio, blinking slightly at the morning sun that had risen high enough to clear the trees.

Rosie didn’t stir at his silent approach, but Arwen’s senses were still quite keen and she looked up from her work. A multitude of emotions flashed through her eyes, but they passed too quickly to be interpreted and were swiftly masked by an unreadable expression. "Lord Celeborn, good morning," Arwen said quietly. She rose and bowed slightly before turning back to Rosie. "Do you feel you are skilled enough to continue without me, little one?"

"I think I have the hang of this now," Rosie answered somewhat absently, still caught up in what she was doing. "But if you’d have someone check on Elanor for me and bring her here if she’s awake, I’d be grateful."

Arwen smiled and nodded. "Of course. I shall see to it immediately."

Rosie then blinked and looked up as though realizing what she had just said. "I mean…I didn’t…I wasn’t ordering you to—"

"Peace," Arwen laughed. Celeborn noted that her mirth was somewhat forced, but there was still a note of real humor in her voice that gave him hope. "Peace," Arwen repeated. "You requested a favor of a friend, and I see nothing inappropriate in that. Continue in this and I shall return to aid you ere long."

"As you say, my lady," Rosie said with a rather awkward bow.

Arwen returned the bow and then moved toward Celeborn, her eyes taking on a stubborn look that was astonishingly similar to a look that Elrond adopted from time to time. "I gather you have come to speak with me."

"As I remember it, I made you a promise that I would further explain things," Celeborn answered, turning and walking back into the house. "And I have yet to break my word."

"That is well, for I would have informed all of Imladris had you failed in this," Arwen said, and something in her voice informed Celeborn that she said this only partially in jest. "Your reputation would have been forever soiled, grandfather, and I am certain that grandmother would be deeply shamed by that. Come, then, and speak, my lord. For I have labored through much of the night and the morning to see that your instructions were fulfilled. It is now time for you to uphold your end of the agreement."

At that moment, it struck Celeborn that Arwen looked and acted the part of the queen of Gondor. Never before had she been quite so assertive with her grandfather, and never before had she spoken with quite so much boldness. _The world changes, and Arwen with it, for she is now truly of this world. Alas that the elves cannot adjust as can she._ With a sigh, Celeborn led the way into a parlor and took a seat, gesturing for Arwen to do the same. "Númenor," he began. "My instincts were correct. It was in Númenor that this happened."

"During the reign of Ar-Pharazôn," Arwen guessed.

"Yes. I do not understand how I did not see this connection until now, but my mind has not been entirely sound, as you noted yesterday. Perhaps that has been the cause."

"So long as you are once more yourself," Arwen said. "Say on, please."

"It is something that Elendil told Elrond and Gil-galad sometime during the course of explaining what had happened to Númenor. Your father later shared this story with me, and using what we knew from Elendil, we came to suspect that this same thing has happened in other instances as well, particularly during the time of Morgoth. But Númenor is by far the clearest example of what we face. From it, we can learn what to expect, what must be dealt with, and hopefully, we may learn how to heal our friends."

"And what is it that we face?" Arwen asked. "You still dance about the issue as though hesitant to broach it. Are you yet uncertain?"

Arwen missed nothing, but then, she was her father’s child. Elrond had never missed anything, either. "I feel I shall never be completely certain," Celeborn confessed. "But I would not hesitate to put my current theory to the test, for I feel it is the best explanation that we shall find. Tell me what you know of Amandil."

"Amandil?" Arwen frowned and her brow creased slightly in a way that reminded Celeborn very much of his daughter, Celebrían. "Amandil was Elendil’s father and the last of the _Elendili_ to sit upon the ruling council of Númenor. When Ar-Pharazôn made Sauron a counselor rather than a prisoner, Amandil went to his stronghold in Rómenna and there lived in exile until seeking the blessing of the Valar. His ultimate fate is yet unknown in Middle-earth. Do you desire more?"

"Tell me of his relationship with Ar-Pharazôn."

Arwen’s frown deepened, and Celeborn could see she was greatly puzzled. Nevertheless, she continued to play along, though the lord of Lothlórien doubted that this would continue to be the case if answers were not forthcoming. "From what little I remember, I believe that Amandil and Ar-Pharazôn were close friends as children. This friendship is what enabled Amandil to stay upon the ruling council for as long as he did. But Sauron’s lies proved strongest in the end, and he had Amandil stripped of council authority."

"And Ar-Pharazôn allowed it."

"He was corrupted by Sauron," Arwen answered. "He began to allow many things, such as the construction of a temple to Morgoth."

"True, but some things he allowed more easily than other things. Casting Amandil from the council was one of the first things Sauron did after his release from captivity, and in this he had Ar-Pharazôn’s full support. Does that not sit strange with you, Arwen? How did two such close friends come to be sundered so quickly?"

"I suppose that I had never considered the idea," Arwen answered slowly as her brow furrowed even more. "Perhaps I was blinded, as many elves are, into attributing it to the fickleness of men in remaining true to their comrades. But knowing better now, I see that you are correct. Even for one so focused upon his own greed, it would have been unusual for Ar-Pharazôn to turn so quickly upon Amandil. In many cases, Amandil was among his strongest supporters. I would attribute Ar-Pharazôn’s act of betrayal to Sauron’s influence, but even that does not seem to be explanation enough."

"Nay, it does not," Celeborn sighed. "Not as you understand things currently. And now we come to more difficult matters, but I fear there is no avoiding them. What do you know of Morgoth and the origins of the Orcs?"

Arwen shivered and it seemed that a shadow fell upon Rivendell, but Celeborn remained still, waiting for her response. After a moment or so, Arwen looked away and the muscles around her jaw tightened. "I know little, for I had neither desire nor need to know more. I still have not that desire," she added in warning, but her voice was filled with reluctant resignation.

"Most do not," Celeborn murmured. "But for some, it is not our fortune to live in ignorance. And unfortunately, I have learned much. In the ruins of Orthanc, scrolls and books were discovered that give great insight into Orcs, elves, and their shared ancestry. I would that I had never read these things. I see now that it may yet prove to our benefit, but even so…" Celeborn trailed off and sighed, momentarily lost in memory and shock. Eventually shaking away his reverie, he sighed again and turned eyes that were greatly apologetic toward Arwen. "The process involves torture of both the body and the mind. The body is broken first, for after extreme physical abuse, the mind becomes more susceptible to suggestion. There are also dark sorceries and bindings that aid the evil in its conquest. In the end, the poor victims of this change are hopelessly sundered from all light. They forget all that they once knew. Their will is forever bound up in the will of their master, and they become walking nightmares with no recollection of their past and no hope for their future. It is an all-consuming process that changes the victim forever. They themselves are not quite Orcs, but their offspring, if bred correctly, become the heinous creatures. But the victims themselves…they are ruined." Celeborn fell silent, foul memories drifting through his mind, and then he shook his head. "This process takes time and destroys the body, but in Númenor, Sauron…altered things somewhat. Much as we believe Morgoth did upon occasion."

"In what way?" Arwen asked, her voice no more than a whisper. "In what way were things altered?"

"I suspect that Sauron learned most of it from Morgoth and then perfected the art while a prisoner in Númenor, but however he accomplished it, Sauron discovered a way to keep the body whole and intact while still controlling a part of the mind. It was a much faster process than the process of breaking elves to breed Orcs, and at times it was far more useful."

"And Sauron used this upon Ar-Pharazôn to turn him against Amandil," Arwen guessed.

"That was what Elendil reported to Gil-galad and your father," Celeborn confirmed. "And it was used on others as well. Many within the capital city were set against the _Elendili_ using this method."

"What was involved?" Arwen asked. "And how successful was it?"

"It involved primarily fear," Celeborn answered. "Fear, hatred, helplessness, and a feeling of betrayal were all more or less necessary, though some of these feelings could be manufactured if they were not found in the victim already. The first step was, as in the creation of Orcs, harsh, physical abuse. Victims were tortured brutally until they swooned, after which they were taken before Sauron. When they regained consciousness, they were in a considerably weaker state than before, and it was easy for Sauron to slip his own will into their minds through the cracks caused by pain."

"You are saying that Ar-Pharazôn was tortured?" Arwen demanded. "But surely all of Númenor would have known of such a happening!"

"They would have indeed known of it were it not for the fact that this step in the process lasted only a single night. A few of the guards from Sauron’s captivity were already under his sway, and they assisted in the process. At least, that was what Elendil hypothesized. In any case, as morning approached, the victim would wake again, this time having Sauron’s will within their mind and finding themselves unable to move due to the severity of their wounds. And here comes the most crucial element. Sauron would offer them healing, but this healing would come by his darkness. And having very little will of their own, most of the victims accepted willingly. Even those who were not willing did not resist for long, abandoning the fight out of confusion, pain, and terror. And once given free access to the mind, Sauron was able to do many things."

"But total corruption cannot happen overnight," Arwen noted. Her eyes were narrow, but Celeborn could not tell if it was due to skepticism or to fear. "Even if Sauron healed them and imposed his will upon them, a difference would have been noticed. Ar-Pharazôn would not have been himself. Perhaps Elendil was mistaken in what he thought happened."

"Would that such was the case," Celeborn sighed. "I said not that the entire process was completed overnight. In most cases, it took one or two weeks to finish. And Sauron was no fool. He did not rush things. Very simple commands were given initially, such as the command to refrain from speaking of the torture, or the command to listen more to his counsel than to the counsel of others. Refraining from sunlight was another command that was easy to follow, for the darkness within the mind abhorred the light of day. And with every command that was obeyed, the bond with the darkness became greater. Fear and suspicion could be planted but not acted upon. Not at first. However, as the days passed, fears and suspicions would grow until the victim himself began to believe them. And once that happened, Sauron could implant more binding commands."

"Commands such as removing Amandil from the council," Arwen murmured.

"Precisely," Celeborn confirmed. "But Ar-Pharazôn was not alone in undergoing this process. Others also turned suddenly on Amandil and his household. And that is the how we learned what truly happened, for Elendil confronted two of these changed men, overpowered then when attacked, and took them back to Rómenna. And one was…healed. More or less. There is no true healing from this, for the memory of actions taken while under the influence of darkness continue to haunt the soul. But Sauron’s shadow was removed from the mind of one of the men."

"How was it done?" Arwen asked.

"It was not done until after the fall of Númenor," Celeborn answered grimly. "They tried healing them both before the fury of the Valar was unleashed, but the man who was not healed…" Celeborn trailed off for a moment, wondering if he should proceed. But Arwen’s warning look quickly banished any hesitation. She wanted to know all, no matter how painful it might be. "I suppose I should not be so quick to judge. It may be that he was healed in the end, for he did not make an attempt on Amandil’s life. Instead, he took his own."

"Suicide?" Arwen said, her voice rather breathless.

Celeborn nodded. "I suppose it was a noble sacrifice. But I would not say that he had been healed. It was done as a last resort. He could not kill live and allow Amandil or Elendil to live as well. One had to die. He chose himself."

"What of the other one? What of the one they saved" Arwen asked.

"As I said earlier, it was done after the fall of Númenor. After Sauron’s direct influence upon the man was broken. There was much athelas involved, and there were many healers. They searched long for the man’s true self, which had fled his mind and cowered under covers of darkness. But since Sauron no longer controlled the darkness, they could break through and guide the man back into the light. He was forced to confront his greatest fears in doing so, but it was done. According to Elendil, it was a difficult process. In the initial healing stages, the victim was convinced that fear was the only emotion that he would ever know again. In order to fight it, the victim needed the support of his colleagues to walk him through the process, something that was nearly impossible because it was hatred of his colleagues that the darkness bred. Sundering friends seemed to be the greatest focus of the shadows."

"Could it have been used for other things?"

"Perhaps, but as for what those other things are, I do not know. Our records do not mention them. Indeed, when accounts of this changing process are mentioned at all, they are mentioned in passing as grievous casualties of the war with Morgoth. In most of the scrolls, nothing more is said of them."

Arwen nodded slowly, absorbing this information while maintaining a safe, emotional distance from it. "I understand what you say, my lord, but what of now? How do you know that this is the intent for Legolas and Merry? I see no evidence of that."

"Here comes my greatest uncertainty, yet it is the best guess I have to fit the situation. And more than that…" Celeborn hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should share his brief glimpse of Galadriel’s hand in his thought process, but then decided against it. "First of all, the darkness in the forest is based upon a sorcery that Sauron taught to many Black Númenóreans within his service. Thus, it is logical to assume that we face a Black Númenórean. The fact that Elladan’s Orc hailed from Mordor is more proof for that point. So what would a Black Númenórean want with Fellowship members captured alive? If he was to kill them, he would have done so already and left the bodies for us to find. If he was to ransom them or use them as bait, he would not have bothered with hiding the trail of the Orcs. What is his plan, then? He obviously intends to use them for something, but whatever that something is, it will take time to accomplish. And it must be something within the grasp of a Black Númenórean."

"But the evidence is circumstantial at best," Arwen protested. "Yes, I agree that your theory fits the facts, but other explanations could also be found."

"There are also other facts which I have not listed," Celeborn continued. "Again returning to the Orc that Elladan found, do you not find it unusual for a renegade Orc to obey a master so completely? Remember that Elladan saw a great fear within the Orc just ere the creature pushed himself onto your brother’s blade. And there is the darkness itself to consider. Since these twisting shadows are created by a Black Númenórean, we can read some of his thoughts and intents. Did you know that Gimli and your husband nearly came to blows last night ere they split the group? I spoke with some of the elves that returned, and many witnessed that when Gimli dropped his axe, the darkness seemed to swallow it. That, to me, would indicate a desire to do harm. And many more elves mentioned that they felt estranged from their comrades whenever they ventured too far away. Again, I believe this is indicative of an intent to sunder and to separate. Even though they are not the direct targets of our enemy’s purposes, the elves upon the trail have begun to feel betrayed. They have begun to feel fear. It is the first step down a dark and dangerous road. I shudder to think of what has happened by now to Legolas and Merry."

"But it is only a string of facts that you have loosely tied together," Arwen said, her voice strained with desperation. "You have created a chain of events that seem to support this idea, my lord, but there is no inherent connection other than the one that you have made. Is it wise to place so much faith in so far-fetched a possibility?"

"Far-fetched? Perhaps. But a possibility, nonetheless." Celeborn shook his head and sighed. "In truth, I know not how to explain myself, Arwen. I know only that my mind distrusts as yours does, but my heart is sure. This is what is happening. And we must free Legolas and Merry quickly before they become too enthralled in the power of he who holds them. If you wish, you may think of this certainty as…intuition," Celeborn finished with a wry smile.

"Intuition?" Arwen’s eyebrows went up. "Were not you the one who always advised us that intuition was not enough?"

"In this case, it is," Celeborn said, rising to his feet. "I will go now to wait for those returning from the trail. They will undoubtedly have questions for me based upon what I told Elladan before he left. And I would not have them spending time searching for me when it could be better spent by resting."

"It is not only your heart that is certain of this," Arwen stated quietly, her dark eyes studying her grandfather. "Even though you claim that you have suspicions, your mind also knows that this is happening. How?"

"I have learned that answers come in many forms," Celeborn said, moving toward the door and hearing Arwen rise to follow. "But trust me for now, young one. And if I am proven wrong then so much the better, for our friends will be spared this particular nightmare. But at least we shall have prepared Imladris and ourselves for the worst."

* * * *

The Mouth of Sauron was beginning to regret his decision to attack the remaining members of the Fellowship. Had he waited perhaps even one more month, he could have better fortified his stronghold against the elves of Rivendell and so bought himself more time. But by then, it would have been too late. The Fellowship would have dispersed again, and his ability to control the Orcs would have greatly diminished as their lust for blood and vengeance increased. Fear could control them only as long as fear remained the dominant emotion. It had worked for perhaps a year, but now, with nothing to assuage competing emotions, fear was beginning to lose out from time to time. He suspected there had even been a deserter or two within the past few months. With a sigh, the man who was not quite a man shook his head. Ever since the fall of Lord Sauron, things had gone horribly awry for the enemies of Gondor. Why should this particular situation be any different?

Sighing yet again, the Mouth of Sauron attempted to turn his thoughts away from the encroaching Rivendell forces and back to his latest set of problems. Through narrowed eyes he studied the unconscious forms of elf and hobbit. His work with them had been rushed by necessity, and it was certainly not going as well as it could be. But for the elf, things were proceeding at an acceptable pace. The prince of Mirkwood was moving along somewhat erratically, but at least the darkness was having an influence. The hobbit, on the other hand…the hobbit was another mater entirely.

Meriadoc Brandybuck was proving to be a most unusual puzzle, and had he not felt so pressed for time, the Mouth of Sauron might have actually enjoyed the challenge. Never before had he met a being that so thoroughly resisted his influence. The hobbit had an uncanny immunity to dark suggestions, and the Mouth of Sauron wondered if this was how two of these creatures had been able to withstand the Ring on the long journey to Mordor. But if this was indeed the case and the Ring had failed in corrupting hobbits, how was he, a mere shadow of the Dark Lord, to do any better?

"Because this particular hobbit is in my care, and I may attack him directly," the cloaked figure reassured himself, but his comfort was half-hearted. He was quickly running out of time, and at the rate things were going, not even the elf would be fully prepared to return to his companions by the time the elves found this underground stronghold. "I shall have to move with even greater haste," he sighed at length. "But what consequences that shall have, I cannot say. And yet, what other choices have I? None that I can see."

A grimace twisted the face beneath the dark cloak, and a brief flicker of torchlight caught eyes that were as pools of black ink. Uncertainty gnawed at him as it never had before. But then, he had never experienced a situation like this one. This was perhaps the last chance for Mordor’s power to rise again. If he failed—and there was a significant possibility that he would—then the threat of Mordor would be broken forever. Orcs might continue to harass travelers daring the Misty Mountains or the Ephel Duath, and foul things might creep about the crags and craters of Orodruin and Minas Morgul, but never again would a force capable of threatening the might of Gondor rise from the ashes of Barad-dûr. It was a sobering and depressing thought for the Mouth of Sauron, and not for the first time, he fervently cursed the fate that had turned the tides and brought down the Eye.

Eventually the Mouth of Sauron brought himself back to the current situation, though the memories of the past were never far from his thoughts. And as he once again contemplated the elf and the hobbit, he came to a decision.

As far as the elf was concerned, he would proceed as planned. He would hasten things slightly and try to create a sharper focus in the elf’s training, but as a whole, he would change little. He feared to press the elf too hard too quickly, for if he actually succeeded in completely breaking the elf and depriving him of voluntary thought, it would do no good. The elf had to be capable of thinking for himself, although such thoughts would certainly be watched, monitored, and altered if need be.

But as for the hobbit…something a bit more drastic seemed to be in order. The current procedure was doing nothing, and plans had to be changed. The hobbit’s mind had to be made more open to…suggestion. The man who was no longer quite a man hesitated a moment and then reached for a flask that he had attached to his belt. He had not wanted to use this on either prisoner but most certainly not on the hobbit. The contents within the bottle had only been used on elves for the purpose of ruining them. There was no telling what the effects might be on a halfling. Beyond that, there was very little possibility that the hobbit would retain the ability for independent thought if given this draught, something necessary for the plan. There was also a very good chance that this would kill him.

__

I still have the elf, the Mouth of Sauron reminded himself, glancing at the prone figure of Legolas. _And yet…the plan will be far better with both the elf and the hobbit._ He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind so as to better analyze the situation. But the press of time and the complications of hastening his work would not leave him alone, and in the end, the Mouth of Sauron gave up attempts at rational thought. He had never been truly rational since the fall of Mordor anyway.

Eventually deciding that the possible successes warranted the risks, the Mouth of Sauron knelt and propped Merry against him. Tipping the hobbit’s head back slightly, he laid a cold hand on the side of the little one’s head and willed him to wake. A groan and a shiver indicated that he did have some control over this creature, though it was not nearly enough. Merry did not open his eyes, nor did he in any way acknowledge the fact that he was regaining consciousness. After one final moment of hesitation, the Mouth of Sauron forced the lip of the bottle into the hobbit’s mouth and tipped it up.

The reaction was instantaneous. Merry froze, stiffened, and then began to struggle frantically. Prepared for this, the Mouth of Sauron tightened his hold on the flailing hobbit and forced the rest of the concoction down his throat, whispering warnings about what would happen to defiant slaves. Merry didn’t seem to heed these warnings as he was too intent on trying to escape, but eventually, his struggles began to die away, replaced by violent shudders and raspy breath.

Confident now that the hobbit’s stomach would not refuse the foul substance, the Mouth of Sauron dropped Merry to the ground and stood. In a few hours, he would know whether or not he had succeeded. If he had, then he could begin his work in earnest. If he had not, the hobbit would make a fine plaything for the Orcs. In the meantime, though, he would concentrate upon Legolas and bring him up to speed. There was very little time remaining to them. He knew not their exact position, but through the darkness he had laid upon the ground, the Mouth of Sauron could sense that the elves were very close. If this was a race, then they were now entering the last stretch of miles, and the Mouth of Sauron intended to see that he finished first.

* * * *

Somewhat removed from the main body of elves, Rúmil crouched low upon his branch and swept his eyes over the writhing darkness. At first glance, this cloud of shadows had not changed since they’d first encountered it, but to the experienced eyes of one of Lothlórien’s best trackers, there was something decidedly different about it this day. The darkness was strangely agitated, or so Rúmil deemed, though he wondered if emotions could be ascribed to so intangible an entity. None of the other elves seemed concerned by this, but Rúmil knew better. He was accounted the best forward scout in Lothlórien, and he had long ago learned to read the subtle changes in the enemy’s darkness. While he had never met this particular form of shadow, the nuances were the same. And as the writhing mist seemed to become thicker and more turbulent, Rúmil’s level of anxiety became higher and higher.

"Trouble, brother?"

The elf glanced over as Orophin dropped onto his branch, and then he directed his eyes back out into the forest. "Something is happening. I believe the enemy is uncertain, and his doubt is causing him to make hasty decisions. Yet at the same time, our foe believes these choices are wise even if they are hastily made." Rúmil grimaced slightly and debated about actually descending into the darkness as Elladan was doing so as to get a better feel for what was happening. "I like this not. The enemy is too confident. He is too sure of his plans. He feels haste and doubt but not fear. This darkness does not yet seek to thwart us, though it does delay us."

"But what does it all mean?" Orophin asked.

"As for that, I do not know and I fear to guess," Rúmil sighed, for once wishing that he had his brother’s patience. He was tired of analyzing the darkness and wished for answers, but answers were not going to come until something happened. Rubbing his temples, Rúmil stood and moved to a different branch, slightly lower than his previous one. "Where is Haldir?" he asked when he felt Orophin move with him.

"He accompanied some of King Thranduil’s archers out on a scouting mission. They are in the trees further south of our position, but they should not be far away," Orophin answered. "The king of Mirkwood seems rather anxious. I have heard rumors that he was going to take the elves of his realm and break from this group come daylight. He wishes to leave off following the trail and pursue the Orcs on instinct, or so the rumors say."

"We shall have to do that soon," Rúmil murmured, more to himself than to his brother. "And I am rather surprised we have not done it yet. Nor are there any other elves I would rather have searching for an Orc stronghold on instinct alone. Our kindred in Mirkwood have protected their kingdom for centuries using such tactics, for they had naught else to aid them. Still, perhaps it is a bit premature to turn away from a known trail. And given the shadows upon the ground, a misstep or wrong turn now could mean several more days worth of searching."

"But what if it is time?" Orophin wondered. "Perhaps the messages you see in the darkness are a signal to us. Perhaps it is time to leave the trail."

"Counsel from the shadows?" Rúmil rolled his eyes and shook his head in mock frustration before turning to study his brother. "Are you ready to entertain every notion, be it wise or foolish, that enters your head?"

"What other way is there?"

It was exactly the type of answer that Orophin was accustomed to give, and it was usually the type of answer that drove Rúmil to the end of his patience because this answer was almost always given in the middle of some argument or another. Fortunately, they were not seriously arguing yet—though that could always change with Orophin around—and Rúmil was able to smile indulgently at his younger brother’s strange mentality. "Some would think it best to eliminate erroneous thoughts and keep only those most plausible explanations before reasoning each one to its logical conclusion."

"But many important details might be missed in that way," Orophin protested. "And often it is the details that define a situation rather than the sweeping explanations you might offer."

"Perhaps, but sometimes it is better to aim for a broad and generalized understanding rather than for complete comprehension. It saves time, and time is usually limited."

"But what is time to elves?"

"More than you might believe," Rúmil said, "but there are few enough left who understand that."

Orophin regarded his brother curiously for a moment with a gaze that had always managed to irk Rúmil no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, and then the younger elf shrugged and looked away. "Perhaps you are right. I shall have to think on this."

"Must you think on everything?" Rúmil sighed.

"All things are of worth, though their worth is not always seen," Orophin answered with a quiet laugh. "But there are few enough left who understand that."

If there was one thing about his younger brother that annoyed Rúmil more than anything else, it was his ability to take words, turn them around to his fit his own needs, and then offer them back to the one who had first spoken them. These words usually assumed the form of an insult, and the present time was no exception. Rúmil was about to offer some choice remarks about young elves that failed to heed the advice of their elders, but a sudden change in the atmosphere stopped him. Freezing where he was, he held his breath as a precaution against making any sound at all and studied the surrounding forest with piercing intensity. Sensing that something was amiss, Orophin became equally silent, quieting his own breath and waiting with his endless patient for the cause of the sudden change to be revealed.

"Orcs," Rúmil murmured. "And they are close. Far too close. We should have sensed them before now, but I believe this darkness has managed to cloak their presence." Rúmil stood and drew an arrow from his quiver, fitting it to his bow. "You said Haldir was south of us with elves from Mirkwood?"

"Yes. He should be directly south," the younger elf answered, his voice quiet with hidden concern.

"Then make haste and return, Orophin. Warn Lord Elladan and King Thranduil."

"What of you?" Orophin asked.

"I go to find Haldir," Rúmil said. "Quickly now before they sense our presence!" And without waiting for a response, Rúmil leaped forward and began speeding through the trees, keeping a sharp eye out for any sign of his brother and the other scouts. If they had not sensed the Orcs by now, they needed to be warned.

He had not gone far when he was stopped by the sound of harsh cries and the sudden whine of arrows. Orc voices rose in a loud chorus, and the black mist seemed to tremble as though the hidden ground was shaking. And bursting forth from the branches before him—almost crashing into Rúmil in their haste—raced Haldir and several Mirkwood elves.

"Orcs!" Haldir exclaimed breathlessly upon seeing his brother.

"I noticed. Were you not watching the forest as you are supposed to do while scouting? I sensed these creatures while—"

But Rúmil was not allowed to continue berating his brother because black arrows suddenly slammed into the branch upon which he was standing. Jumping back with a sharp curse, Rúmil’s eyes swept the ground and widened at what he saw.

"We sensed the Orcs, yes," Haldir said, pulling Rúmil backwards as the elves from Mirkwood stopped to fire, covering their retreat. "But we thought there were only two or three spies that we might dispatch with ease. When first we saw them, there were only four and so we loosed our arrows. Yet one cried out as he died, and that is when the rest of their companions came into view." Haldir glanced over his shoulder at the stream of Orcs racing beneath the trees. A few of them were climbing now, hoping to force the elves to the ground. "It seems secrecy will no longer aid us," he observed.

With a nod, Rúmil shook off his brother’s arm, mastered his own shock—for while he had also sensed Orcs, he had not sensed nearly this many—and lifted two fingers to his lips. A long whistle shot out, alerting all to the sudden danger, and Rúmil followed it with a series of shorter whistles, informing the other elves of the estimated number of Orcs as well as the fact that there were now Orcs in the lower branches.

"Sixty?" Haldir asked when Rúmil finished even as he drew his short sword and leaped forward to dispatch an Orc that was climbing the trunk of their tree. "I do not count sixty Orcs."

"Of course not, for you only counted four," Rúmil retorted, stringing his bow and quickly loosing an arrow into the horde. "I decided it was best to overestimate rather than underestimate." Shooting off three more arrows, he began to retreat even further, for Orcs were running beneath them, intent on reaching the larger elven host, which was now close enough to be smelled by the foul beasts. "Back!" Rúmil ordered, hastening his own steps. "We are not strong enough to fight here."

The elves from Mirkwood began to retreat with great reluctance, apparently loath to abandon a fight. But a sudden curse from Haldir turned them and they abruptly realized that Orcs were coming up from their rear, separating themselves from the main elven company. "Higher!" one of the Mirkwood elves cried out, leaping up several branches and turning the retreat into a rout. "Stay together!"

Quickly ascending into the tops of the trees, the elves hurriedly passed over the Orcs in the lower limbs that had thought to steal in from behind. Their progress was swift even though they stopped every few branches to loose arrows and cover their own retreat, but the Orcs upon the ground were faster than they, and the elves could not seem to get ahead of them.

"Run!" Rúmil suddenly ordered. "Do not stop to loose your bows! Let us trust that the branches are thick enough to shield us from their bolts." Catching his brother by the arm, he pulled a few arrows from Haldir’s quiver and shoved them into his own, replenishing his vanishing stock. "Make for Lord Elladan and King Thranduil so that they might know what we face. I shall swing east and see that all who were scouting have been brought to safety."

"Safety go with you," Haldir shouted as Rúmil broke away.

"Look to your own welfare, brother," Rúmil answered with a defiant grin as he wove in and out of the branches. He was soon out of Haldir’s sight, for the thick trees were quite good at blocking vision, and he quickly made his way eastward. Rúmil’s movements were completely silent, and the Orcs beneath were heedless of his passage. He longed to take his bow and begin dispatching them, but even with the addition of Haldir’s arrows to his quiver, he did not have enough bolts to endure a prolonged fight. In any case, the first order of business was to see that all scouts reached the safety of the main group. He could not give away his position until he knew that everyone had made it back.

A sudden shout of triumph rose up in front of him, and Rúmil momentarily froze, cursing bitterly. He recognized the sounds, and the associated memories were not pleasant. They were the sounds that Orcs made when they downed an elf, and breaking out of his shock, Rúmil hastened onward with even greater speed, hoping he would not be too late.

He skidded to a halt above a collection of six Orcs, and the sight below him made his blood boil. They were crowding over an elf, jeering and laughing, while the elf—who wore the colors of Rivendell—twitched slightly but made no move to escape. An arrow protruded from his shoulder, and his dark hair had fallen in disarray about his head, stained with blood from a wound to his temple. Thoroughly enjoying themselves, the Orcs closed in, poking and prodding until Rúmil could take no more. What he did next he did without thought for consequences. Completely ignoring the more rational part of his brain that told him it was already too late, Rúmil let out a harsh cry and dropped straight onto one of the Orcs.

Sweeping his short sword from its scabbard—he preferred the bow, but in situations such as this, the sword was a far more satisfying weapon—Rúmil relieved one Orc of its head, stabbed another in the back, and took out a third with a swipe that split open its gut. The other three Orcs, taken by surprise, retreated hastily into the forest at the same time that they began bellowing for help. Knowing he had but moments until more foul goblins arrived, Rúmil knelt swiftly and examined the fallen elf that he had risked his life to save. But as he had already sensed, it was too late. The last breath was taken even as Rúmil placed his hand on the other elf’s neck and felt for a pulse. A sweeping sorrow flashed over Rúmil, but he knew better than to stop for grief at a time like this. Pulling the dead elf over his shoulders, he looked for a low branch onto which he could leap, found one, and hurried toward it with all possible speed.

But he had taken too much time, and a sudden shout from behind informed him that pursuit had begun. With a powerful leap, he propelled himself upwards onto the low branch and was about to jump to a higher one when a blast of fiery pain assaulted his right leg. With a strangled cry, he stumbled and fell, crashing to the ground and dropping his burden as he instinctively rolled to absorb the impact of the fall. Looking to his leg, he grimaced at the black arrow buried in it and reached to pull it out. Yet even as he did so, a wave of nausea swept over him and the pain in his leg suddenly intensified. _Poison_ , he realized with a sickening chill. _The arrow is poisoned. That is why the other elf died so quickly._

Trying to ignore the sudden fear that possessed his racing heart, Rúmil braced himself and pulled the arrow. He was unable to stifle the resulting cry, and at his outburst, the Orcs laughed. They were advancing slowly now, and there was victory in their eyes. They knew they had him, and Rúmil was now forced to accept this fact, for he did not think he could put any weight on his leg. But he was not about to be taken without a fight. If they wanted him, they would pay for it with their lives.

His position was awkward, but nevertheless, he readied his bow and began to shoot. The advance now became faster as the Orcs tried to reach him and stop his archery, but Rúmil picked up the pace in response, felling Orcs left and right as they began to surround him. His bolts flew with deadly accuracy, and his hands moved faster than mortal eyes could track, but there were too many Orcs. While he was looking to the right, an Orc moved in from the left and kicked the bow from his hands. More Orcs then moved in, pinning him beneath their hands and stretching his body out upon the ground. Amidst the sudden barrage of kicks and punches, Rúmil caught sight of one angry goblin raising a wickedly curved sword above its head, ready to avenge the Orcs that Rúmil had killed.

Restrained as he was, the elf could do nothing to save himself, and so he braced his mind for death. Wide, gray eyes watched in horror as the dim light of the sun gleamed red off the blade that would end his life. He briefly wondered if he should turn away and close his eyes or if he should keep them open and focused upon his killer. The Orc probably didn’t care what he did, but Rúmil was becoming slightly curious as to whether or not he would be able to see death as it swooped down upon him if he kept his eyes open. It was an interesting dilemma that occupied a rather detached part of his brain, but the debate swiftly turned academic when the curved sword began to descend.

So ready was he for the end that Rúmil was completely unprepared for what happened next. The sword swinging down upon his chest suddenly careened to the side and light flashed off a broader weapon as the Orc fell headless. The hands that restrained Rúmil fell away and the Orcs yelled in sudden fear and confusion. A strange shout rose up above the din of the goblins, and still recovering from his shock, Rúmil had just enough time to look up and see a short, bearded creature leap over him and fall upon the Orcs like a thing possessed. Gasping in surprise and wincing at the exploding agony in his leg, Rúmil managed to roll to one side and raise himself up on his elbow in time to see Gimli, son of Glóin, single-handedly rout the Orcs. The sheer surprise of his attack as well as the dwarf’s ferocious countenance that spoke of a crazed desire for vengeance was enough to drive away the few goblins who were not killed by his gleaming axe. But as they had when fleeing before Rúmil, these Orcs called for aid while they ran and answering shouts were soon heard.

"Haste now, Master Elf," Gimli said gruffly, sprinting back to Rúmil’s side and bodily pulling the elf to his feet. Unable to help himself, Rúmil cried out as his weight fell upon his right leg, and Gimli swiftly moved to brace him. "Lean upon me and we shall soon reach safety. Your brothers heard your cry, but they were tied up in battle with Orcs in the trees and could not come. But I expect to see them shortly."

"How did you come to be here?" Rúmil demanded breathlessly, amazed at the notion that he now owed his life to a dwarf and even more amazed that he was actually allowing the dwarf to support him as he hurriedly limped away.

Gimli glanced up at Rúmil as though the elf had just asked what color the sky was. "Were you not listening? No others were able to come. I was more or less free because I do not stay in the treetops, which is where the Orcs are going. Haste now, for I think that your friends the goblins are returning. And they do not sound pleased with us."

Rúmil’s instincts were twisting themselves into chaos and he could not sense the presence of more encroaching Orcs. But he found himself believing Gimli—he could not really say why—and tried to walk faster. His faith in the dwarf was rewarded when arrows began to whistle past them, causing Gimli to start ducking behind tree trunks. But while this protected them from the poison-tipped darts, it slowed their progress significantly and the Orcs began gaining. But try as he might, Rúmil could not coax more speed out of his faltering legs, and he could feel the Orcs’ poison start to creep up the side of his body. He was about to suggest that the dwarf go on without him when arrows began to fly from the opposite direction, raining down upon the Orcs and buying Gimli and Rúmil the time necessary to pull away from their pursuers.

"They took their precious time in coming," Gimli muttered, continuing to pull Rúmil along as elven arrows began driving back the Orcs.

Rúmil laughed slightly while hope crept back into his heart. Perhaps he would indeed live to see another day. But even as he entertained this thought, pain suddenly blossomed in the middle of his back. Stricken, he froze and looked down in horror as a crude arrowhead broke through the skin of his chest.

"Rúmil!"

The shout came from somewhere above him, and much to his surprise, Rúmil discovered that he was lying on his side upon the ground with a dwarf hovering over his shoulder, demanding that he respond to his name. And as the surrounding world began to fade, Rúmil decided that this had to be one of the most improbable ways to die.

"Rúmil!"

"Gimli…" Rúmil finally managed to answer.

"Quiet," Gimli hissed, seeming to forget that he had just been calling the elf’s name. "Do not try to speak. I cannot remove this arrow now. Not here. But it cannot remain as it is. Stay still. This shall hurt." And before Rúmil could even think to ask what was going on, the dwarf had seized the shaft still protruding from his back and broken the main part off, leaving only a small stub protruding from the wound.

Though Gimli had been quick, the movement caused a sudden swell of agony in the elf’s chest. His breath came in painful hitches, and he tasted blood in his mouth. The poison that had been upon the arrow’s tip spread outward into his chest and he felt his heart shudder in response. "Gimli…" he gasped again, trying to get the words out.

"Are all elves so stubborn!?" the dwarf exploded, holding tightly to Rúmil’s shoulder as the elf began to shudder. "Do not waste your energy on speech!"

"Thank you…" Rúmil whispered, closing his eyes as his vision turned fuzzy. His mind had finally processed the personal risk Gimli had taken in coming to his aid alone, and this was something that could not be ignored no matter what the cost. "I…was wrong…about dwarves. Or at the least…I was…wrong about you. I am sorry."

There was a quick pause, and the dwarf’s hands upon his shoulder suddenly went still. Then the moment passed and Gimli was back at work, trying to press torn strips of tunic around the arrowhead in Rúmil’s chest so as to keep it still and stop the bleeding. "Foolish elf," the dwarf muttered. "You lie here wounded and wish to thank me. There is nothing to thank. I did not reach you in time."

"Legolas was…right to name you _elvellon_ ," Rúmil murmured, words and breath now becoming next to impossible. "I doubted…when I heard of it, but he was…right. You are an…elf-friend. It is in…your actions and in your…eyes."

"What did I tell you about talking?!" Gimli demanded.

"Rúmil!"

The sound of a new horrified voice forced Rúmil’s eyes open again and he looked up as the faces of Haldir and Orophin suddenly swam into view. He attempted a wan smile, but a fit of coughing took him and the resulting pain left him too weak to even keep his eyes open. He dimly heard something of a conversation taking place above him and wondered what they discussed. He wished he had the strength left to once again thank the dwarf and apologize for his earlier words, but he knew now that Gimli understood. Gimli had always understood. _It is unfortunate that only at the end do I see the worth of the dwarf_ , Rúmil sighed.

Then he felt arms around him and sensed the presence of his brothers close at hand. They were lifting him up and preparing to carry him away. The occasional whistle of an elven arrow came to his ears, and he wondered how the fight was going. He still felt that Orcs were near, which meant that the elves were still in danger. But none of that really mattered anymore. At least not to him. The Orcs could not hurt him where he was going. He felt strangely light, almost as though he was floating. He wondered if this was what it was like to be an eagle. He’d always wanted to fly with the eagles.

"Rúmil!" Haldir’s anxious voice intruded into his thoughts, but everything seemed so far away now. "Rúmil, stay with me. Fight it!"

__

Fight what? the elf wondered as the world continued to drift into the distance. _Oh, death. I suppose I should fight it, but the wound is mortal. There is no chance for me and the poison has reached my heart. Strange. I always thought that Orophin would be the first to go, what with his wandering mind and penchant for trouble. And I wish that I could bid both him and Haldir farewell. But I trust that they shall find comfort in one another. They usually do, and that shall be my hope. Until the end of this world, my brothers. I shall ever be waiting for you._ And with this final thought, Rúmil’s head slumped forward onto his bloody chest as the poison overwhelmed his struggling heart. His lungs expanded one last time, blood filled his throat, and the world became completely silent.

"Rúmil!"

 

*******

 

****

Author’s Notes  
  
—Regarding Celeborn’s explanation of events in Númenor, most of it is extrapolation and my own overactive imagination. Amandil and Ar-Pharazôn were great friends, Amandil was cast from the council shortly following Sauron’s release from prison, he sought the blessings of the Valar, but more than that is pure fiction. Fanfiction, actually. ;) So take it for what you will. Those wishing to know what really happened as far as Tolkien envisioned it will have to refer to the _Akallabêth_ in the _Silmarillion_.


	20. Roads Not Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

His mind ached. His body trembled. Every muscle, every sinew, and every fiber within his being cried for rest. His skull shuddered with a headache situated directly behind his eyes. His very soul felt as though it had been pushed far beyond what it was capable of enduring. Darkness crowded his thoughts, and he no longer had the strength to push the shadows aside. The only recourse left to him was to become lost in dreams where the powers of the enemy could not follow.

  


Aragorn remembered being this weary only once before and that had been during the endless journey upon the Paths of the Dead. Having just wrested control of the palantír away from Sauron, Aragorn had really been in no shape to take the road he then took, but necessity had dictated his actions. Onto the Paths of the Dead he had gone, and by their end, he had felt as though he could easily sleep for at least several years. Only the strength of Númenor pounding through his blood and the impending doom of Minas Tirith had kept him on his feet. And it could be said that he faced very similar circumstances now. Only fear for Legolas and Merry had seen him through the trying night.

  


But now others had taken up the task of tracking, and Aragorn was ready to drop. Sprawled across the large bed in the chambers that he shared with Arwen, the king wondered where his wife had gone and if she’d been informed of his return. His frazzled mind, torn and worn by the constant contact with darkness, yearned for her calming touch in a way he had never before experienced, even during the long, lonely years as a Ranger in the wild. But at the same time that he pined for her presence, another part of him was somewhat glad she was not about. He had not the strength to return words and ease her fears, and he was somewhat leery of Arwen’s mothering instincts should she find him in his current condition. Hopefully he would be able to recover somewhat before she discovered him, for then his tired reassurances that he did not need medicines and healing would be far more convincing. He would be unable to completely fool her, but if he was strong enough, he might be able to dissuade her.

  


He had certainly not dissuaded Celeborn. Aragorn had ridden into Imladris with his guards surrounding him as though they feared he would fall from his horse. And if it had been any horse other than Roheryn, their fears might have been justified. Roheryn had taken great care to ensure that the bumpy road was a smooth as possible for his rider, but there were several times when Aragorn almost decided that pitching forward out of the saddle and knocking himself unconscious might actually be a good thing. The time would pass much faster that way, and he wouldn’t have to concern himself with all the petty details of command when they arrived at Rivendell. But once Aragorn undertook a job, he fulfilled that job, and so he remained in the saddle. Yet as they were dismounting before Rivendell’s main porch, Celeborn had come forth, taken one look at the king of Gondor, and immediately sent servants scurrying off to prepare a bath in his quarters. Then he had personally steered Aragorn into his room, informed him in no uncertain terms that he was to spend the day resting, and locked the door on him.

  


Had Aragorn been in any other condition, he would have been greatly affronted. He would have engineered a daring and dashing escape that would have put even the vigilance of Mirkwood to shame, and then he would have confronted Celeborn as an indignant king who had been imprisoned against his will. But as it was, Aragorn had possessed just enough energy to scowl wearily at the closed door before collapsing face-first onto the bed. He had not moved since.

  


A doorway on the far side of the room was beginning to allow steam to drift in, but though the idea of a relaxing bath was tempting, Aragorn didn’t think he could make it to the bathtub. Beyond that, he was somewhat concerned about the possibility of drowning, which only confirmed his feelings about just how tired he was. _It would certainly garner an interesting reaction, though_ , he thought wryly. _The king of Gondor, after coming through darkness and death to stand before the very gates of Mordor itself and then see the delivering hand of victory, drowns while having a bath in Rivendell. I wonder what Elrond would say to that…_

  


"Estel?"

  


Completely surprised by Arwen’s voice, Aragorn somehow managed not to jump, something that pleased him greatly though it could be argued that his lack of reaction was due to the fact that he had no energy for a reaction. But his joy was short-lived, for in his current position, his exhaustion was painfully obvious. He had no illusions about fooling Arwen into thinking he was well, but neither did he have a desire to display his weakness for the entire world to see. _And at the moment, it is probably possible for the entire world to crowd into my room without my ever being aware of it_ , he sighed, slightly disgusted with himself.

  


"Beloved, are you awake?"

  


For answer, Aragorn moved his head to the side and grunted. It was the best response he could offer at the moment. Utilizing energy for anything more substantial seemed like a terrible waste.

  


"Celeborn and Elrohir told me that you had returned," Arwen whispered, sitting next to Aragorn and gently brushing errant strands of hair away from his brow. "They also told me that they locked you in our quarters so that you might find rest. Why are you not sleeping?"

  


This question required a slightly longer answer than her last one, and Aragorn cast about in his mind for a way to minimize words. "Too tired," he finally muttered, wondering if that made sense to anyone other than himself.

  


"You are too tired to sleep?" Arwen said, her brow furrowing.

  


"Frustrated," Aragorn added, opting for the single-word answer and hoping it would be enough.

  


"Too much on your mind, then," Arwen translated, and it was close enough to the truth that Aragorn decided to let it pass. "I know of what you speak. Or rather of what you don’t speak," she said, pushing him on to his side and undoing the ties of his tunic. "My mind has also been full these last few days. I have learned much of what we face but little of what to do in bringing this crisis to a resolution. Lord Celeborn has been one riddle after another, and even when he speaks plainly, he speaks of things so terrible that I cannot believe them." With effort, Arwen drew Aragorn’s shirt off his unmoving form and then started on his boots and pants. "He wishes to speak with you and ask of you what you felt when confronting the darkness," she continued, keeping up a running monologue even as Aragorn began to drift in and out of sleep. "He also wishes to know if Gondor has information concerning Amandil and Ar-Pharazôn that Rivendell does not have. After all, Minas Tirith has many records left by Isildur that never again made it back over the Misty Mountains. Aragorn, are you listening?"

  


Aragorn blinked and realized that Arwen was now pulling a blanket up over his form. "Pardon?" he asked, wondering if he had missed something important.

  


"Peace," she said with a quiet smile. "My apologies. I think I spoke to hear the sound of my own voice. But you are tired and I weary you. Sleep now, and I shall keep the bath water warm. When you wake, you may wash yourself and then we shall seek out Celeborn together. There are many things still that I would know."

  


"Time?" Aragorn murmured, trying to muster the energy to turn his head and glance out the window.

  


"You have several hours in which to sleep, and I shall wake you ere it grows too late in the afternoon. Have no fear," Arwen promised.

  


Aragorn grunted again and his eyes slid shut. For a brief moment, it seemed that the black mists of the forest seized upon his helpless form and tried to drag him into darker depths, but then he felt Arwen’s lips upon his, and the shadow vanished. He raised his head slightly, returning the kiss, but he was pressed back down and Arwen again commanded him to sleep. Unable to disobey and very aware of the fact that his mind seemed to be assuming the consistency of a hobbit porridge, Aragorn abandoned the fight and drifted into slumber.

  


* * * *

  


The sun was directly overhead, but the day seemed unusually cold. Still panting from the battle with the Orcs and still feeling surges of adrenaline coursing through him, Sam was nevertheless becoming convinced that the day was growing colder rather than warmer. It was a disconcerting thought and he blamed it completely upon the darkness that swirled about his feet.

  


"Sam?"

  


The hobbit looked over as Pippin stumbled toward him, trying to wipe his sword off on every tree he passed so as to rid it of the filth from the Orcs he had slain. "How are you doing?" Sam asked.

  


"That was my question for you," Pippin answered. "Elladan says we should be safe enough here and that the elves have driven most of the Orcs off. Or killed them, I guess. But he wants to move as soon as he can get everybody together and accounted for." Pippin looked up into the trees, searching for elves above them, and then sighed. "From what I can gather, and that’s little enough, I guess not everyone made it."

  


"The way Mr. Elladan’s eyes widened when he first heard those whistles, I’m guessing the Orcs took even the elves by surprise," Sam said.

  


"And in addition to that, there was the problem that everybody had split into scouting parties while we stayed on the main trail," Pippin added, glaring at his sword as though the force of his stare would somehow clean it of the remaining residue. "How’s your head?"

  


Sam rubbed a bump on the back of his skull and grimaced. While ducking beneath the sword thrust of one of the few Orcs that had remained upon the ground, he’d been caught by a glancing staff blow and had rolled into a tree. Fortunately, Pippin had been close enough to help him, and elven arrows from above had also made an appearance. "I’ll live," he answered at length. "It wasn’t a very hard blow. Just enough to daze me."

  


"Good," Pippin murmured. "I don’t fancy carrying you back to Rosie. She’d have both our hides."

  


Sam nodded and winced when he thought of Rosie’s expression should she learn that he had been injured. The injury was minor and Sam had no plans to tell her that he’d been struck, but should she find out, he would endure a scolding the likes of which might well bring down the foundations of Rivendell. And considering the fact that Rivendell had survived almost one complete Age and half of another one, that was quite a feat.

  


"Have you seen Gimli at all?" Sam asked, deciding he’d had enough of his own thoughts and hoping that conversation might distract him.

  


"Not since he took off after Rúmil when Haldir and Orophin were trying to make an opening for us to escape," Pippin said. "I think I heard him say something about elves not being able to stay out of trouble, which I thought rather odd because there he was rushing into it."

  


"Gimli can be rather odd around elves," Sam murmured. "Do you suppose he’s all right?"

  


"Gimli? Of course he’s all right. He’s a dwarf. Dwarves are always all right."

  


"That’s no guarantee," Sam sighed, stalking toward a broad tree trunk and leaning back against it. "Dwarves aren’t always all right. Just ask any of the elves. I heard Legolas once say that—Pippin! Down!"

  


Reacting completely on instinct, Pippin fell to his stomach as a lone Uruk-hai came charging toward him, the sword thrust intended for his chest missing his hair by scant inches. Sam was immediately moving, brandishing Sting as its blue light filled the woods. Pippin rolled to his feet and turned to meet the Orc, but before either of them could do aught, the air seemed to whistle and the Uruk-hai fell dead with three arrows imbedded in his throat.

  


"My apologies, Master Hobbits," a voice called, and Elladan suddenly dropped out of the branches behind Sam. "We were not watching the north as closely as was needed. The fight to the east took our attention."

  


"How many more of them are out there?" Pippin asked rather breathlessly, feeling the top of his head to make certain that the Orc had actually missed.

  


"That should be the last of them," Elladan sighed, indicating the fallen Orc with the tip of his bow. "Valar take them all. Were it not for this accursed darkness we would have sensed them long ago. And then mayhap we would not have been hurt so grievously."

  


"How many?" Sam asked hesitantly. His obsession with the Eldar while in Rivendell prior to the Ring’s departure had led to a rather uncanny talent for reading emotions in elven faces, and this talent was now informing him that Elladan was very upset about something.

  


"More than should have been lost," Elladan answered, a mask swiftly descending over his face. "The Orcs had dipped their arrowheads in a poison of some kind, but we are still uncertain as to the exact nature of the poison used."

  


"Is Gimli all right, Mr. Elladan?" Sam asked, feeling a stab of fear. "We were trying to get back and Haldir and Orophin were covering us and then Haldir started shouting something about Rúmil, but they couldn’t leave us, if you understand me, so Gimli just ran off and—"

  


"Peace, Samwise," Elladan interrupted. A small smile appearing on his face, but it did not reach his eyes. "Your dwarven friend is physically unscathed."

  


"Physically?" Sam questioned.

  


"What about Rúmil?" Pippin asked, his voice quiet and fearful as though he already knew the answer.

  


"Gimli did not reach his side in time. He had already been shot. And though the dwarf did drive off a group of Orcs, he could not get Rúmil away. Rúmil died in his brothers’ arms." Elladan’s gray eyes clouded over and he sighed. "Rúmil was not the only warrior we lost today. And we may yet lose more. A group is gathering to return to Rivendell with the wounded and the dead, but at the moment, we do not know if the wounded will even survive the journey."

  


"Are you going back with them?" Sam asked.

  


"Nay, I am staying here. I fear we can no longer follow the trail as was our intention, for we are too close to the stronghold. Such a large group of Orcs was no scouting party. They were a standard guard unit out on patrol. We are very near their base and must now formulate another plan."

  


"So King Thranduil was right," Pippin said. "We should have left the trail this morning."

  


"He was indeed, and I fear that my counsel persuaded him to follow the wrong course," Elladan murmured.

  


"Do you want us to stay with you or go back with the others?" Sam asked. "If you need us, we’ll be glad to stay here."

  


"The decision is yours to make, my friends," Elladan told them. "The wounded, if they live, will reach Rivendell ere Elrohir and Aragorn leave to rejoin us. If you wish to return now and meet with them, you have my leave to do so. But if you wish to remain here, then we would be glad of your company."

  


"Even though we’re not very good in the trees?" Sam asked, hoping to draw a smile from the weary warrior.

  


"Even though," Elladan answered, but he gave no smile.

  


A moment of uneasy silence fell, eventually broken by Pippin. "What do you think we’ll do now? Will we split up like King Thranduil wanted to do?"

  


"We cannot do that until Elrohir and Aragorn return," Elladan said with a shake of his head. "We shall need all of our forces to separate effectively, for by necessity, any groups we create must be large groups. The ill effects of the darkness seem to be lessened if one travels with many others."

  


"Then what shall we do until they get here?" Pippin wondered.

  


"I know not," Elladan said. "At this point, the great bulk of our knowledge is not knowledge at all but rather vague guesses backed by circumstantial evidence." Elladan smiled slightly. "You probably did not wish to hear that."

  


"No, not really," Pippin admitted.

  


"Were I able to, I would give you nothing but reassurances. However, I fear we have all been grievously deceiving ourselves, and now it has led to the deaths of elves beneath my command. I will not lie to you, my friends," Elladan said with a slight grimace. "Our next task will not be an easy one. Without the use of a clear trail, we must somehow locate the stronghold of the Orcs and then confront them. And doubtless we shall meet other Orcs along the way."

  


"If it brings us closer to Merry and Legolas, then I’m coming," Pippin said firmly.

  


"We didn’t follow you out all this way just to stop here," Sam added. "We haven’t been much help so far, but we aren’t turning back."

  


"Would that all could have your resolve and your faith," Elladan murmured. "Come then, and let us seek out your dwarven friend and also King Thranduil. We shall take counsel together regarding our next option, and mayhap when Elrohir and Aragorn arrive, we shall have answers for them."

  


"Is it safe to have King Thranduil and Gimli together in the same conversation?" Pippin idly wondered.

  


"Safe or not, it is necessary," Elladan said firmly, moving away and gesturing for the hobbits to follow him. "They must both overcome their differences if this is to succeed. If not, I foresee a very dark future."

  


* * * *

  


"Mommy, I’m hungry."

  


Rosie looked up from her _ôlgalenas_ leaves at Elanor and sighed. The little hobbit had woken an hour or so ago, and after one of the elves informed her of it, Rosie had taken her daughter to breakfast. She’d already eaten, of course—breakfast being something that hobbits did immediately after rising—but she’d cheerfully joined her daughter for yet another meal before returning to the porch where she and Arwen had been preparing medicines. Arwen had been gone when she returned, but since Rosie had a fairly good idea of what she was doing with these elvish leaves, that was not a problem. What was a problem, though, was that Rosie had now eaten twice and had yet to feel the bite of hunger. But Elanor did not have that advantage and was feeling the need for more food. Unfortunately, Rosie had learned the day before that Rivendell’s kitchens did not operate on a hobbit timetable. There would probably be nothing to eat for another hour or so.

  


"Why don’t you keep playing with your toys and I’ll see if I can manage something," Rosie counseled.

  


"I’m hungry now!" Elanor insisted.

  


Rosie sighed and rubbed her brow. "Elanor, I don’t know as there is anything for you to eat."

  


"Rose Gamgee?"

  


Rosie looked up, startled. She had not been aware of anyone’s approach, but a strange elf was now leaning over her shoulder, examining her work with the _ôlgalenas_ leaves with a critical eye. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I didn’t hear you come in," she hastily explained, getting to her feet and offering a quick curtsy.

  


"No matter," the elf said with a slight shake of his head, and Rosie now recognized him as the elf that had come earlier to speak with Arwen. His long, silver hair was caught back in a warrior’s braid at the base of his neck, and his bright gray eyes held depths that the hobbit could not even begin to penetrate. "I have to come to tell you that Arwen may not return for a while," he continued, his eyes softening when Rosie began to shift nervously, not used to the effects of a prolonged elven gaze. "She apologies for this and promises to come as soon as possible."

  


"Oh, that’s all right," Rosie said. "She can take whatever time she needs. I’m fine here and I don’t want for company, seeing as I have Elanor with me and all." Rosie then blushed and realized that this was probably an elf of some importance. "I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know as I remember your name. Or maybe I don’t know it, but—"

  


"Peace, good hobbit," the elf laughed quietly. "My name is Celeborn."

  


Celeborn…the name was vaguely familiar to her and Rosie wondered if Sam might have mentioned it in conjunction with his tales of Mr. Frodo, but all those strange names of people and places had run together in Rosie’s mind. She was fairly certain that she’d heard the name Celeborn before, but she didn’t know if this was an important name or just someone Sam had run into.

  


Seeming to read the confusion and hesitation on Rosie’s face, the elf before her smiled and his eyes twinkled with a bit of mischief, a trait that seemed to be quite common in elves. "I take it that you do not know who I am."

  


Rosie shook her head even as she continued to search her memory. "I’m sorry. You seem familiar, but I just can’t quite seem to put my finger on where I might have heard your name, sir."

  


"Mommy! I’m hungry!"

  


Rosie looked over at Elanor and sighed. "Elanor, I already told you that—"

  


"The child is hungry?" The elf named Celeborn smiled again and shook his head. "So the obsession with food begins young in hobbits."

  


"I don’t know about obsession," Rosie said, feeling a quick sting of indignation. "We just like to be well fed, that’s all."

  


"Of course," Celeborn said indulgently with an amused look. He then moved over to Elanor and went down on one knee. "You say you are hungry, young one?"

  


Elanor nodded and adopted her best pouting expression, something that made Rosie instantly groan. There was no reasoning with Elanor when she started to pout, and the only way to win her good graces again was to agree to whatever she wanted, something that Sam did with outrageous regularity. Rosie kept trying to tell her husband that giving in only cemented in Elanor’s mind the idea that she could get anything out of anyone, but while Sam would listen and nod in agreement at all the right places, he continued to spoil their daughter shamelessly.

  


"Well, then," Celeborn said, picking the child up effortlessly and rising. "Let us see if we cannot fix that problem."

  


Rosie frowned and decided that this particular elf was probably not from Rivendell. " I don’t think the kitchens are open right now, Mr. Celeborn," she informed him. "They won’t be serving food and we’ll have to wait for noon. I don’t want you getting Elanor’s hopes up, if you take my meaning."

  


"I do take your meaning, good hobbit, but I think I may be able to convince the kitchens to provide a small meal for a hungry child," Celeborn answered.

  


It was absolutely clear now to Rosie that Celeborn definitely did not come from Rivendell. "I don’t think you understand, sir," she said. "Those elves in the kitchen…they’re strict about when they serve food and they told me that there were already too many people about to go catering to hobbits whenever they were hungry."

  


At this Celeborn started to laugh. "Ah, that brings back many memories. When your husband and his companions stopped in Lothlórien, the hobbits in the party nearly cleared out our larders."

  


"That’s where you’re from?" Rosie asked. "Lothlórien?"

  


"Yes. For now," Celeborn sighed as an expression of great sadness swept over his face. It was such a contrast to his previous mood that the sudden shift unnerved Rosie slightly, but before she could say aught, a mask had fallen over the elf’s face and he inclined his head toward the house. "Come. As I said before, I believe I might be able to convince the elves in the kitchen to fix a plate for your daughter. And perhaps for you as well, if you wish to eat again."

  


There seemed to be no gainsaying this elf—particularly since his legs were twice as big as hers were and he had already left the porch with Elanor in his arms—so Rosie hurried to catch up, wondering exactly how she was going to convince him that this particular kitchen did not listen to anyone. She supposed she would have to let him find out for himself, a tactic she used quite regularly with Elanor. She only hoped that he wouldn’t be too disappointed. It was a shame, really, because he seemed like a very kind elf that only wanted to help. And sad, too, though Rosie had yet to determine why he was sad. Personally, she didn’t understand how anyone could be sad in Rivendell. Even though she missed Sam fiercely, there was a healing spirit in Imladris that set her heart at ease. She still feared for him, but sadness itself was an emotion she had difficulty maintaining.

  


"Maybe we should find a back way into this kitchen," she suggested when she caught up to the elf. "Or you could distract them up front while I slip in and find a bit of something for Elanor. Maybe that would work better than just approaching them."

  


The elf laughed quietly and shook his head. "Let us try a more direct method first. It is sometimes far more beneficial."

  


"Sometimes," Rosie allowed hesitantly. "But I think if you distract whatever elf runs that kitchen, then maybe the rest won’t be so intimidated and I can get some food out of them."

  


Celeborn stopped so quickly that Rosie let out a quick yelp, surprised at the abruptness of his halt. Looking up at his face, she saw that his eyes had gone blank and she wondered what had happened. According to Sam, elves didn’t get sick, but to Rosie’s mind, Celeborn’s sudden actions seemed to indicate illness. Wary of disturbing him—especially since he was holding Elanor—Rosie cleared her throat and took a tentative step toward the elf.

  


"Mr. Celeborn?"

  


"If Mithrandir were still here, he would call us all fools," Celeborn murmured, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "It works upon the field of battle, why should it not work within the mind as well?" The elf opened his eyes and turned to the hobbit. "Rose Cotton Gamgee, you have my thanks. And if we are successful in our endeavors, you shall have the thanks of Legolas and Merry as well."

  


"I…what?"

  


"Come. You shall be rewarded twice over for this," Celeborn said, resuming his walk toward Rivendell’s kitchens and forcing Rosie to run in an effort to keep up.

  


"But what did you mean? They’re all right? Merry is—"

  


"Not yet, but soon. Much sooner than originally planned, thanks in part to you," Celeborn answered. "Valar, I should have seen this by Mithrandir’s example if for no other reason! Confront first and then offer solace. Valar, he almost succeeded with Saruman! Why could I not see this? But we have been set in our ways and our strategies for far too long."

  


"Sir, I don’t understand what you mean and I don’t see that—"

  


"Peace," Celeborn interrupted, weaving his way through a maze of corridors that quickly had Rosie’s head spinning. She knew how to get to the kitchens, of course, for acquiring this knowledge is a priority among hobbits whenever they elect to stay in a new place. But apparently there was more than one way to get to these kitchens, and Celeborn seemed to be taking a shortcut. Almost before she knew what had happened, they had walked into a large room filled with cupboards, pots, pans, hearths, ovens, and things Rosie couldn’t even begin to identify for she had never seen them before her stay in Rivendell.

  


" _Brannon nîn_!" one of the elves called out, and she recognized it as the elf who had informed her the day before in no uncertain terms that hobbits did not dictate mealtimes.

  


"This good hobbit and her daughter are in need of food," Celeborn said, speaking in Westron for Rosie’s benefit. "Would you see that they are given a proper meal? I wish for there to be nothing lacking."

  


Until this point, Rosie had seen only the calm, austere side of the elves. She had never seen one discomfited or taken by surprise. But the look she now saw upon the elf’s face was nothing short of complete and utter dismay. "Lord Celeborn," the elf started, "I do not think that you understand what you are—"

  


"Lothlórien played host to the Fellowship, and within the Fellowship were four hobbits. I know very well what I am asking."

  


"As you wish, my lord," the elf sighed, and Rosie heard a definite note of reluctance in his voice. But her mind was now focused on other things, for a memory had been triggered at the title of _lord_. Sam had once told her who ruled Lothlórien, but she had forgotten the strange name. Until now…

  


"If you have need of aught else, you have but to ask these good elves," Celeborn informed Rosie, handing Elanor back to her. "And if they do not see to your wishes, you have but to search me out. I thank you again, Rose Cotton Gamgee, for your help. And now I fear that I must bid you a fond farewell."

  


"Wait!" Rosie blurted, unable to stop herself. Shifting Elanor to the side even as the child started squirming at the smell of food, she hurried after Celeborn and nearly ran into him as he stopped in the doorway. "I…that is…what I mean…are you the same Celeborn that—"

  


"Peace," Celeborn interrupted before the stammering and embarrassed hobbit could finish the question. "To you, Rosie, I am Celeborn. A friend. And to me, you shall also be a friend. An _elvellon_ , or elf-friend, if you accept it. Nothing more and nothing less. Will you allow me this privilege? For often, especially now, I find myself very alone."

  


The sadness in the elf’s eyes took Rosie’s breath away, and before she knew what she was doing, she had nodded her assent. But she could not help herself, for the ageless quality of those deep, gray eyes coupled with an immeasurable sorrow running just below the surface was not something to be denied. "Just Celeborn," she murmured. "I don’t know as I can do that, sir."

  


"Try then, for me," Celeborn said quietly.

  


"All right," Rosie promised, offering a slight smile. "If it will help you."

  


"It will," Celeborn answered, returning the smile. "And now I must go, for there are many things to do. See if your food is yet prepared, and if it is not, tell them that Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien orders speed and haste." And with this, Celeborn reached out to gently tousle Elanor’s hair before rising and leaving the room. And behind him, a hobbit of the Shire seemed to stand a little taller.

  


* * * *

  
__

I warned them. I warned them that this would happen. Had they heeded my counsel, our presence might still be unknown. Now we have revealed ourselves to the enemy. Beyond a shadow of any doubt, they know that we draw near. And if Legolas is harmed in any way because of this…

  


Fuming with anger even as fear was choking his heart, Thranduil made his way swiftly and silently through the trees on a search for Elladan. The company of elves had to move and it had to move now! They could not remain here, for more Orcs were certainly going to be sent to finish what their brethren could not. As for where they would go, Thranduil had yet to figure that out. They needed a better idea of the surrounding area in order to gauge where a stronghold might lie. But that also needed to be done with haste, for they had just set a time limit on the lives of the captives.

  
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Of course, time was always limited if what Celeborn suspects is true, Thranduil thought as the cold hand of despair began to creep over him. _If what my son currently endures is the same as that which was done to Ar-Pharazôn, then time is almost up. But we have made his plight worse, for if our enemy hastens his plans and does not take care, he may well kill his prisoners by accident!_

  


Taken by fury, Thranduil swore and brought his sword down hard against the trunk of the tree in which he had stopped. The blood of Orcs caught the sun’s feeble light and turned the blade a dull red. With a slight grimace of disgust, Thranduil pulled the sword free of the trunk and then dragged the weapon along the tree’s limb in a futile effort to clean it. But the filth of dead Orcs clung to the metal like a dragon clinging to pile of gold, and the king of Mirkwood knew that a far more thorough cleaning would have to be arranged sometime. Most of the attacking Orcs had been killed, but a few of the Mirkwood scouts insisted that one or two had escaped southward. This complicated matters somewhat and also delayed the time when Thranduil could clean his sword. Not that sword cleaning was an item of great priority, but Thranduil was a rather obsessive elf with some very peculiar habits. Keeping his sword clean was one of these habits. A bloodied blade had a tendency to wear on his nerves, but the situation was clearly not going to allow Thranduil to indulge in any of his idiosyncrasies. He could live with that—he had lived with it many times in the past—but it was one more black mark against the enemy that had taken his son. And Thranduil intended to see that this enemy paid for each and every offense that Thranduil was dealt as well as tenfold for each and every offense that his son was dealt.

  


A sudden disturbance to his left brought Thranduil’s murderous thoughts to a halt, and he looked up with a frown. Something was coming through the trees with great haste, but though it moved with an elf’s grace, it did not move with an elf’s silence. Tightening his grip upon the hilt of his sword, Thranduil took a step back and fixed his eyes upon a cluster of leaves. Before long, his wait was rewarded as the branches burst asunder and the creature making such a stir leaped through.

  


"Hold!" Thranduil commanded even as surprise blasted through his mind. The noisy intruder was indeed an elf, and not only was it an elf, it was one of the Galadhrim. Within the trees, Lothlórien’s elves were so skilled as to be comparable to even Mirkwood’s finest scouts, but this particular elf seemed to have forgotten how to move with stealth. He also seemed to have forgotten his surroundings, for he did not stop at Thranduil’s command. Somewhat indignant at this breach in authority and respect, the king of Mirkwood quickly stepped forward and placed himself directly in the path of the rampaging elf.

  


Startled by the sudden roadblock, the elf came to an abrupt halt and seemed to realize that he had company. His flashing eyes darted to Thranduil’s face and he opened his mouth to speak, but recognition flitted across his features ere he could say aught. Not quite knowing what to do, he froze, watching Thranduil closely.

  


"You are greatly distressed, young one," Thranduil said, running his eyes over the other elf’s bloodied tunic and trying to determine how the archer was wounded. He had seen stress and battle rob even the best warriors of their senses, and he suspected that this was probably the case here. "Perhaps I might aid you," the king offered at length, deciding to forget the earlier lapse in protocol. "You have been hurt and—"

  


"Nay, not I but my brother!" the elf exploded, anger and hatred springing into his countenance with such swiftness that Thranduil actually stepped back. "It is his blood that I bear!"

  


Thranduil frowned and took a closer look at this elf, recognizing him now. "Haldir of Lothlórien, correct?" he questioned.

  


The elf nodded, and once again, sense seemed to prevail in his distraught mind. "My apologies, my liege," Haldir murmured, casting his eyes down and beginning to shiver from shock and grief. "I fear that, at the moment, I…I am not myself."

  


"Your apologies are accepted," Thranduil said quietly, drifting closer to the elf. "And in return, I offer my sympathy. I was among the archers that sought to buy Rúmil time to escape. I regret that we were not successful." The king laid a hesitant hand on Haldir’s shoulder, seeking to impart comfort. 

  


"He is dead!" Haldir suddenly wailed, his grief bursting from him as though a torrent had been set loose. "Sweet Elbereth, he is dead! Gone!"

  


"Peace," Thranduil said quickly, pulling the weeping elf against his chest. The king had been in Haldir’s situation many times. His father, his wife, and one of his daughters had all perished by the hands of the Orcs. His other daughter and two of his sons had departed over the sea at various times during the passing years. Four sons only remained to him, and should he lose one of them… "Peace, Haldir," Thranduil soothed, shaking himself free of his own thoughts. "We are still in danger here. Hush. Think of your other brother. What is his name? Haldir, what is his name?"

  


Haldir shuddered and seemed to calm himself slightly. "Orophin," he murmured. "His name is Orophin."

  


"Yes, Orophin," Thranduil said quietly. "And where is he now?"

  


"He sits with…he sits with Rúmil and the rest that were lost."

  


"And why do you not sit with him? For surely Orophin is in need of your wisdom. He is younger than you, I believe."

  


"Wisdom is well and good, but I desire vengeance," Haldir hissed, his mood shifting abruptly. He stepped back, shaking off Thranduil’s restraining hands, and a strange gleam entered his eyes.

  


"The Orcs are gone," Thranduil reasoned, wondering if he would have to summon his guards and have the archer restrained. "Unless you wish to leave the safety of the group, you shall not find them. And though I understand well your feelings, I cannot allow you to do this, Haldir. Vengeance will have to wait."

  


"I do not seek vengeance from the Orcs, sire, for there will be time enough for that later," Haldir growled. "It is the head of a dwarf that I now desire."

  


Thranduil blinked, rather surprised by this turn of events. As he had told Haldir, he had been among the group that answered Rúmil’s stricken cry. It had been an astonishing sight that threatened the very foundation of reality, but with his own eyes, Thranduil had witnessed Gimli defending and supporting Rúmil as they both fled the Orcs. They did not flee fast enough, but despite his prejudices, the king of Mirkwood could not attribute that fault to the dwarf. He had seen Rúmil’s staggering steps, and he had seen Gimli struggling to keep the elf on his feet. But apparently Haldir was only aware of the fact that Rúmil was dead. And since the dwarf had been present when he had died, Haldir’s grieving mind was giving Gimli the blame.

  
__

It seems I am confronted with many interesting dilemmas this day, the king of Mirkwood sighed. Thranduil certainly had no great love for the stunted creature that now bore the brunt of Haldir’s hatred, but he was not about to let the grieving elf kill the dwarf in cold blood. Rúmil’s death had not been Gimli’s fault, and beyond that, the dwarf had actually risked his life in an attempt to save Rúmil. Thranduil had his suspicions about Gimli’s motives, but the deeds themselves could not be ignored. Nor could they be rewarded with murder. But how was he to explain this to Haldir?

  


Thranduil opened his mouth to speak—though he had no clear idea of what he was going to say—but movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and he looked to see the chief of his scouts, Ithildae, step from the foliage.

  


"Sire, all the injured and the lost have now been accounted for. We have gathered them together just north of here. What are your orders for them?"

  


"A moment, Haldir," Thranduil said, his gray eyes quickly boring into the elf and warning him of the consequences should he think about leaving prematurely. Then he turned his attention to Ithildae, though he kept his ears trained on Haldir’s movements. "Are elves of Rivendell among their number?"

  


"Several, sire, both wounded and dead. Also, many of the wounded are falling quickly to a poison that we discovered upon some of the arrows shot by the Orcs. We know not its source or origins, nor do any of those who possess some amount of healing skills."

  


Thranduil swore silently and went over the options available to him. Technically, he could not order all the wounded to be taken back because some of those wounded fell beneath Elladan’s sovereignty. He could certainly order his own, and he could probably get away with ordering the Galadhrim because they had not been left with a central commander and were instructed to follow joint decisions of both Elladan and Thranduil. Yet the circumstances were less than ordinary, and immortal lives were at stake. In addition to that, ordering them to leave now might take care of another problem…

  


"Haldir, follow Ithildae and return to your brothers," Thranduil instructed, moving so that both Haldir and Ithildae were now in view. "You shall accompany them to Rivendell and aid them in whatever manner is needed. Ithildae, assemble what help you require and move all the dead and all the injured to Imladris. Proceed with haste, for time is of the essence. All those fit to do so shall return in Elrohir’s company this evening. Bring with you arrows and supplies."

  


Ithildae bowed and turned to leave, but Haldir showed no inclination of obeying these instructions. Rebellion was growing in his eyes, his jaw was tightening, and his fists were clenching at his sides. "My liege, I—"

  


"Those were not suggestions," Thranduil said quietly, his voice gentle but firm. "Remove yourself from this darkness and think upon your desires. Consult with Orophin, and pay Rúmil the respect he deserves by accompanying him. After you have done this, return refreshed and ready to visit your vengeance upon those more deserving of it."

  


"Sire, I—"

  


"Now, Haldir," Thranduil said, his eyes becoming stony. For a moment the tension between the king of Mirkwood and the scout of Lothlórien seemed to rival the tension felt when the Orcs had attacked. But Haldir’s weary mind could not endure Thranduil’s piercing gaze for long, and at length, he dropped his head in defeat. Thranduil then flicked his eyes to Ithildae, who quickly nodded at the unspoken command and moved to Haldir’s side.

  


"Come," Ithildae said quietly. "Your aid shall be needed in assisting with those from Lothlórien."

  


The two elves departed, leaving Thranduil alone, and the king of Mirkwood was given a brief chance to think back over what had been said. _I have just saved a dwarf’s life_ , he realized, marveling at the irony of it all. _It seems that the Valar are enjoying themselves today, for doubtless this is a spectacle which entertains them greatly. Unfortunately, I have not their sense of humor._

  


Thranduil sighed, closed his eyes, and rubbed his brow. The day was filled with surprises, and he was still attempting to process them all. But necessity called first, and Thranduil eventually chased away those thoughts that centered upon why a dwarf would defend an elf. Focusing once again on the imperative need to move the elven host, he resumed his search for Elladan, all the while wondering what else could possibly go wrong before the day was through.

 

  


 

  


 

  
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Brannon nîn—My lord


	21. Methods of Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope weve all learned a valuable lesson. I know I did. Never underestimate Thranduil. ;) _Dont overestimate him, either, though. Hes still got that fiery spark that makes the Sindar so endearing. And youll all note that I finally got back to Legolas and Merry. Hopefully youre satisfied now. ;)_

Gimli couldn’t quite decide how he felt. A part of him was fuming, a part of him was wallowing in guilt, a part of him was clamoring for vengeance, a part of him was grieving mightily, a part of him was trying desperately to shove down fear, and a part of him was completely exhausted. The dwarf scowled as he attempted to sort through these various feelings and wondered if there was a word to describe what was happening to him. _Madness_ , he sighed at length. _At least, that is what Legolas would suggest were he here to do so. And that might well be the case._

  


Leaning against a tree and studying the messy grime of Orc blood upon his axe, Gimli wondered what the next move would be. The encounter with the enemy’s scouting party was exactly the sort of thing that Thranduil had warned them about, and if that elf was anything like his son, then the king of Mirkwood would soon be a far more interesting mix of emotions than the dwarf was. And possibly very dangerous, as well. No one among the searchers was thinking very clearly, but Thranduil seemed to be more distracted than most. The Celeborn’s subtle hints to Elladan had triggered something in Thranduil, and he had been moody and withdrawn ever since morning. His fear for his son was making him anxious and irritable, and the fact that his counsel about the Orcs had been proven correct was not going to help matters.

  


But even more than that, Gimli feared the words that Thranduil had spoken in relation to the prisoners and the proximity of the searchers. If the king of Mirkwood was right, then Legolas and Merry were now in even greater peril. The recent battle had informed the enemy that the forces from Rivendell were closing, and the dwarf feared what that might mean. He was well aware of the hatred that Orcs bore for elves, he knew Legolas would be experiencing the brunt of this hatred, he knew that some of this was undoubtedly spilling over onto Merry, and he knew that haste and fear in an enemy made him careless. Even if Legolas and Merry were desired alive, they might not stay alive if the author of the darkness was driven to reckless acts, and this was the source of a fear so great that Gimli was certain he would lose what little sense remained to him if it continued.

  


Adding to his problem was a growing guilt complex stemming from Rúmil’s death. There was nothing more he could have done to save the elf, and in his mind, Gimli knew that. But his heart, already torn because of his failure to save Legolas from the initial Orc attack, was not willing to believe his head. Twice now he had sought to aid elves as they battled Orcs, and twice now his efforts had come to naught. Rúmil was dead and Legolas…who knew where Legolas was.

  


Tipping his head back against the trunk of the tree upon which he leaned, the dwarf closed his eyes and shuddered. Six years ago, if someone had told Gimli that he would be mourning the absence of King Thranduil’s youngest son to the point of despair and also working with the king himself to find that son, Gimli would have laughed him to scorn. Yet now he found himself teetering on the edge of reason and sanity for the sake of an elf while at the same time compromising dwarven honor in order to humor the king of Mirkwood. It was an improbable set of circumstances, but Gimli no longer cared about the audacity of it all. At the moment, he only cared about one thing, and that was seeing Legolas safe and whole once more. Even his need for vengeance was dying away in the face of this desire, and so great was his fear for his friend that killing the Orcs who had taken Legolas no longer gave him any satisfaction.

  
__

By all the Valar, Legolas, if I do not find you alive, I shall storm the Halls of Mandos myself to retrieve you! Great Mahal, what is the point of your cursed immortality if you leave me? I have not suffered through your friendship for five years only to lose you now!

  


"Gimli!"

  


Startled out of his thoughts, the dwarf opened his eyes and looked around, quickly spying two hobbits jogging toward him with Elladan following from a slight distance. Berating himself for not watching his surroundings, Gimli attempted to order his thoughts and assume a casual expression. Of course, assuming anything casual at the moment was something of a challenge for the dwarf. Concern—or perhaps the better term would be bald-faced terror—for Legolas he could hide easily enough, but feelings over Rúmil’s death… For some reason, Rúmil’s death had shaken him badly. Worse, in fact, than he had ever been shaken before. Why that was, he truly could not say. It was not the first time that he had seen warriors fall in battle. It was not even the first time that he had seen elves fall in battle. Perhaps it was the way that Rúmil had looked at him. Perhaps it was even the fact that Rúmil had tried to absolve him of all guilt. Or perhaps it was because Rúmil had called him _elvellon_ before the end. It might have been the look of naked horror upon Haldir’s face as he cradled his dying brother. It might have been the outraged shock and anger in Orophin’s innocent eyes. It might have been the reminder that even elves could die. Whatever it was, though, it had done something to Gimli. And he had yet to come to grips with it.

  


"Gimli!"

  


Turning his attention back to the hobbits—who had arrived sometime during Gimli’s musings—the dwarf eyed them both critically and frowned as Sam began to gingerly rub the back of his head. "Are you hale, Master Gamgee?" he asked gruffly, hoping to divert attention from himself by turning the conversation upon others. It was a trick he had learned from Legolas, and remembering this, Gimli felt his heart sink further into its despairing wallow.

  


Apparently caught off guard by the question, Sam blinked and then smiled sheepishly. "It’s nothing serious. Just a slight knock. And if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if we kept this to ourselves. No need for Rosie to know, if you follow me."

  


Gimli flicked his gaze toward Pippin, looking for confirmation, and the Took nodded quietly. Satisfied that Sam was not underplaying his injury, the dwarf turned his eyes back to the gardener and grunted slightly. "You must learn to take better care of yourself, then," he said, trying to sound stern. "These Orcs are not to be trifled with."

  


"We noticed," Pippin muttered as Elladan joined them. He seemed about to say more but was interrupted by a quiet whisper of air behind Gimli. Recognizing this subtle displacement in the atmosphere as an elf dropping silently from the trees, the dwarf sighed, braced himself, and turned to face the blazing eyes of the king of Mirkwood.

  


"I warned you against this," Thranduil hissed, his eyes sweeping across hobbits and dwarf before settling upon Elladan with a scathing glare. "You may have doomed those we seek. We should have left the trail. We should not have pressed onward in this fashion."

  


"It is too late to mourn what has happened," Elladan said, his voice weary. "And I accept responsibility, yet I will not accept that we are without hope, as you seem to believe. We must now take counsel upon what is to be done next. The wounded and dead must—"

  


"I have handled that matter," the king interrupted coldly. "The wounded and dead have already left for Rivendell with ample guard. Those able will return with Elrohir this evening, bringing supplies with them."

  


"Ah." Elladan seemed slightly surprised by this, and Gimli frowned, wondering just how tired Elrond’s son was. "Then I suppose we must decide upon our next course of action."

  


"The next course of action is clear," Thranduil said, a tone of exasperation becoming evident in his voice. "We move the company away from this area. We leave the trail and begin a broad-based search pattern for the enemy’s base."

  


"But we are too few in number for that," Elladan protested. "This darkness has dampened our senses, and should we come upon other parties of Orcs, we would be unprepared to deal with them."

  


"Then I challenge you to propose a course of action that will not lead to our deaths as well as the death of my son," Thranduil snapped.

  


There was a tense pause, and then to the surprise and shock of all, Elladan turned to Gimli. "Master Dwarf, you are knowledgeable in stone. Are caves possible in this area? And if they are, in which direction are they most likely to lie?"

  


Up until this point, Gimli had been content to watch and listen. He had never expected inclusion—especially with Thranduil involved in the conversation—and as a result, it took him a moment to find his bearings ere he could answer the question. "Caves in this area are unlikely," he said at length, tapping his foot against the ground that still lay hidden by darkness. "I cannot be certain, but I believe the soil to be too soft. This is a rich, organic area. We must find a rockier region in order to find caves."

  


"Immediately to our south is such an area," Elladan said, his eyes turning that direction.

  


"It should be an area with diminishing vegetation," Gimli added. "Poor soil will be an indication. Or we should look for a sudden rise in the ground that might expose the bedrock beneath. Such an area would also yield caves."

  


"This area to the south matches your description perfectly," Elladan said.

  


"What makes you think these Orcs and such are in caves?" Pippin asked curiously.

  


"Because that is what I saw in the darkness," Elladan murmured. "I saw the opening of a cave."

  


Gimli frowned and studied Elladan. Perhaps the son of Elrond had spent too much time sifting through shadows. He was beginning to look rather dazed, and Gimli remembered that Elladan had looked much the same as this the previous day when he had collapsed.

  


"I suggest you return to the trees, young one," Thranduil suddenly said, apparently coming to the same conclusion as Gimli. "I will give orders that shall take us away from the trail and so away from further attacks by Orcs. We cannot linger here. And we shall hold together for them moment as I sense that there is a need for recovery ere we begin searching. Go now, Elladan. We will debate the method of search in an hour. That shall be soon enough. Until then, rest."

  


Elladan opened his mouth as though to protest, but he closed it again in the face of a dark glare from Thranduil. A tense silence fell over the small group, and then, much to Gimli’s surprise, Elladan nodded wearily and moved away. Without offering a rebuttal or an argument, Elrond’s son swiftly climbed into the leafy canopy and vanished from sight. It was one of the most unusual things that Gimli had ever seen. The dwarf knew of no elf who enjoyed being coddled, and the proud sons of Elrond were certainly no exception to this. _He is even wearier than I thought_ , the dwarf mused. _I doubt that he will be up to debating Thranduil even given an hour’s reprieve!_

  


"If you wish it, young hobbits, some of my archers have offered to take you into the trees as well so that you may rest without fear of this unnatural darkness," Thranduil continued, further adding to Gimli’s surprise. "And I strongly recommend that you accept the offer, for this dark sorcery is not to be trusted."

  


"But what about Gimli?" Sam asked. "I don’t fancy the idea of him being the only one on the ground right now. I know Legolas wouldn’t agree to it."

  


"Hush," Gimli whispered, studying Thranduil closely and reading unspoken clues in the elven king that reminded the dwarf very much of a few silent conversations that had taken place between himself and the king’s youngest son. He didn’t know if he was interpreting the signs correctly, but it felt as though Thranduil was looking for privacy so that he might speak. "Move into the trees," Gimli continued, turning to Merry and Pippin but watching Legolas’s father out of the corner of his eye. "King Thranduil is right. This darkness is no place for hobbits."

  


"Is it any place for a dwarf?" Pippin countered.

  


"I shall remain upon the ground with him for a time, if it eases you," Thranduil said, a very strange note entering his voice. "And I shall instruct archers to shadow his feet so that he is not without protection should the Orcs come again. And now I bid you go, for you are undoubtedly weary. Tonight shall not be a night for sleeping, and there will be no time for rest." Saying this, Thranduil made a slight motion with his hand, and two archers dropped out of the trees, landing behind the hobbits.

  


"Go," Gimli urged, still watching Thranduil. "Go or I may consider telling Rosie what has happened to Sam."

  


Sam paled visibly at the threat, but Pippin remained unconvinced and shook his head. "I don’t think that—"

  


"My words were not a suggestion, Peregrin Took," Thranduil interrupted imperiously, his eyes going dark. "You will leave us."

  


Silence reigned supreme for what seemed to be an interminable amount of time, and then Pippin nodded reluctantly, his eyes darting between dwarf and king. "If you want company, Gimli, we’ll be close," the hobbit promised, moving slowly toward the elven archers, who looked more than ready to leave the inky shadows upon the ground and return to the sanctuary of the trees.

  


"I shall remember," Gimli answered, mentally thanking Pippin for both the words and the intent. He watched the hobbits as they scrambled onto the backs of the archers and then disappeared as the elves hurriedly left the ground for safer areas. _And now things shall become interesting_ , the dwarf thought, turning back to Thranduil.

  


The king was leveling a rather piercing look at Gimli, so Gimli met his eyes with a dwarven stare that Legolas had once dubbed the closest thing to an elven glare that Gimli would ever manage. It gave the dwarf great satisfaction to see a tiny ripple of surprise flicker across Thranduil’s face. It seemed he had not expected Gimli to be able to endure his gaze. As if answering a challenge, Thranduil stepped up the intensity of his stare, and Gimli had to stop himself from involuntarily turning away. Legolas had a few very formidable looks of his own, but they were as nothing compared to what his father was currently doing. Apparently, a few extra thousand years could do wonders for perfecting an elven glare.

  


Eventually, much to the chagrin of the dwarf, the staring contest became too much, and Gimli began to speak, if for no other reason than to get Thranduil to stop looking at him. "We are now alone, king of Mirkwood, and I feel that such was your intention," the dwarf said, mentally sighing in relief as Thranduil’s gaze lessened slightly. "You have words you would say to me, perhaps?"

  


"I have words, but they are not my own," the elf answered stiffly in a manner that reminded Gimli very much of Legolas in an uncomfortable or embarrassing situation. _The two of you are more alike than you know_ , the dwarf decided, curious as to what other traits Legolas had inherited from his father.

  


"Speak, then, sire," Gimli said aloud, keeping his eyes locked on Thranduil’s eyes despite the fact that the elf’s stare was still far too intense for the dwarf’s comfort.

  


"As you know, Lord Celeborn remains in Rivendell, and so the Galadhrim who travel with us in the forest have done so under my command," Thranduil began. "I bear a measure of responsibility for their deaths even though I counseled against this course of action."

  


Gimli nodded slowly, wondering exactly where this conversation was headed. Nothing that had been said so far needed to have been said in private, and the dwarf was thoroughly confused. An odd look was growing in Thranduil’s eyes that Gimli could not quite understand. Had he seen this particular look on Legolas’s face, he would have identified it as the Second-Round-Of-Drinks Look. During their stay in Minas Tirith following Aragorn’s wedding, Gimli and Legolas had created a game that involved the telling of unbelievable tales from dwarven and elven creation myths. The stories were always told while drinking, and Gimli would always go first. He would weave a tale so far-fetched and so inconceivable that Legolas would be shaking his head over his wine in disbelief by its end. And then, Gimli would reveal the one or two bits of evidence still remaining that proved the tale’s validity. After that, the second round of drinks would begin, and Legolas would always have upon his face a look that combined skepticism, doubt, frustration, and confusion as he was forced to reevaluate the dwarf’s tale based on the proof that had just been given. It was one of Legolas’s more interesting expressions, and for this reason, it had earned its own name. _But why should Thranduil be wearing this expression?_ the dwarf wondered, watching the elf closely.

  


"In addition to being responsible for the deaths of the Galadhrim, I am also responsible for the lives of those who fought for them," the king continued, the strange look in his eyes growing even stronger. "And so it is my duty, though I may not agree with it outright, to commend you for your actions in defending Rúmil. Though he could not be saved in the end, you fought bravely."

  


This last part of Thranduil’s speech had come out in a rush, as if saying it faster would somehow make it easier. Gimli, though, barely noticed the change in pace for he was frozen in shock. Never in his strangest, most bizarre dreams had he envisioned hearing a civil word from Thranduil. But here was the king of Mirkwood actually praising him. Well, _praise_ was probably not the right term, but the king certainly wasn’t blaming him for Rúmil’s death, which was something that Gimli was doing to himself.

  


"I…I thank you for your words, sire," the dwarf said at length, stumbling over his speech. Despite his friendship with Legolas, he had never been overly fond of Legolas’s father. Glóin had painted the king of Mirkwood in terms that were less than glowing, and Gimli had never been able to move past that completely. Yet now… He shook his head and grimaced. "Your acknowledgement means much to me."

  


Thranduil inclined his head slightly, but his eyes never left the dwarf’s face. "I was among the archers who sought to buy you time," he said quietly. His voice was not exactly compassionate, but it had lost some of its hardness. "You did all that could be done. It is doubtful that another elf could have saved him."

  


Gimli wondered if it was possible to die of shock. If so, then he was about to bid a fond farewell to Arda. "King Thranduil, I—"

  


"Do not blame yourself, child of Aulë," Thranduil finished, reading the dwarf as easily as Legolas might have. "Guilt will only serve as a distraction. Hold tight to your axe instead. We shall find you other foes to rend." And having said this, Thranduil turned away and leaped up into the trees, quickly vanishing from sight and leaving a very dumbfounded Gimli alone with his thoughts.

  


* * * *

  


The journey back to Rivendell was becoming, without a doubt, the longest journey Orophin had ever made.

  


Weaving through interlacing tree branches, he clutched a heavy burden to his chest and tried to avoid looking down. But despite his resolve, his eyes were continually drawn to the pale countenance of his dead brother. And every time he caught sight of the still, motionless face… Orophin moaned quietly, and all the years of his long life began to flash before his eyes. And in almost every frame, he found Rúmil’s face. It was a face that had crinkled in laughter and scowled in frustration. It was a face that had creased with worry and softened with mirth. It was a face that had trembled if pained and hardened if angered. It was a face that Orophin knew better than his own, and he had seen it under almost every condition imaginable. Almost every condition imaginable except one…

  


"Ai, Valar," Orophin murmured, staring at Rúmil’s shuttered eyes. "Why, Rúmil? Why did this happen to you? Gladly would I give my place in this world so that you might return."

  


Orophin shook his head, fighting desperately to hold back the tears that flooded his eyes. They would only blur his vision and make travel difficult. He had to be strong. He had to be practical. He had to put his feelings to one side. He had to look to his duty first and his emotions second. _I must be all the things that I am not_ , Orophin wailed silently. _I must be what you were, Rúmil. I must become you, else I shall go mad!_

  


Choking back a sob, Orophin tried once more to keep his eyes forward and to set aside, for the moment, the feelings in his heart that were clamoring for release. But the more he tried to silence the grief, the louder it became. He barely remembered his father, who died on a scouting mission to Dol Guldur. His two brothers had taken it upon themselves to raise him and teach him everything that their father had not been able to impart. When he had completed his training as a warrior, he had joined Haldir and Rúmil upon the western borders of Lórien. They had been an almost invincible force against raids from the mountains. During the War of the Ring when Dol Guldur once again assailed Lothlórien, Orophin had fought side by side with Haldir and Rúmil, looking to topple the fortress that had taken their father’s life. In the year that followed victory, Orophin had somehow convinced Rúmil to learn the Westron tongue with him. Haldir had been their teacher, and as with all things they did together, the experience brought the brothers closer. But now…

  


"I am sorry, Rúmil," Orophin hissed, squeezing his eyes shut and coming to a stop. "It should have been me. As the youngest, I should have been sent on the errand to warn the scouts. It should have been me!"

  


Bowing his head, Orophin began to shake. He struggled to contain the tears that once more threatened to spill over his face. He hadn’t even had the chance to bid his brother farewell. He doubted that Rúmil had been able to see his face by the time he reached his brother’s side. He’d died without knowing that Orophin had come in the end. Too late. Delayed. Preoccupied. Caught up in his own mind, just like Rúmil had always warned him.

  
__

But what is time to elves?

  


More than you might believe, but there are few enough left who understand that.

  


It had been one of the last things Rúmil had said, and only now did Orophin realize what it meant. There had not been enough time. There could never be enough time. Despite the casual attitude of the Eldar toward the passing of seasons, seasons did pass. And though the elves might remain unchanged for the most part, the world around them went through many different phases and many different stages. And there was never enough time to experience them all. The world moved too quickly for that. While Orophin and Haldir had been guarding the retreat of other elves, Rúmil had been dying at the hands of the Orcs. Both situations were now gone, lost to the past. There had not been enough time to live them both. And by choice, Orophin had missed his chance to wish his brother well.

  


Attempting to swallow the growing lump in his throat, the youngest of the three brothers looked down at the still figure in his arms, and one lonely tear slipped onto his cheek. Rúmil had been right in a way that Orophin could have never anticipated. Time was fleeting. Fate did not always reveal itself until time was gone, and then it was too late. Time held no more place for Rúmil.

  


Orophin’s single tear reached his chin, and there it dangled as an autumn leaf that refuses to fall. But as winter eventually claims the most stubborn of leaves, this tear fell, tumbling down a short distance to splatter upon Rúmil’s face. And as the water in the tear broke apart upon impact, Orophin felt his own heart burst. In spite of himself, he gave a soft moan and shuddered, shaking his heavy burden.

  


Almost immediately, he felt someone’s arm slide around his shoulders, and then his head was pulled over to rest against a firm chest. "Peace, my brother," a soft voice whispered. "Peace. I shall carry him for a while."

  


Orophin started to shake his head, intending to explain that he wished to continue carrying Rúmil, but before he even realized what was happening, Rúmil had been taken from his arms and he was left standing along, bereft of an anchor to reality.

  


"Come," Haldir said quietly, his gray eyes boring into the eyes of his younger brother. "The others are drawing ahead. We must not fall further behind." Haldir made as though to move, but it was as if he had never spoken. "Orophin?" Haldir tried again. "Orophin, come! We must take Rúmil to Rivendell. There we may tend to his body. Orophin, are you listening? Orophin?"

  


Orophin made no response, his eyes still fixed upon the face of his dead brother. Lying there in Haldir’s arms, Rúmil looked so peaceful. So strangely peaceful. It was an odd expression for Rúmil as he had rarely looked peaceful. There had never been much peace in his life. Was death so much better that only now did he seem to rest? And how was it that he could look so peaceful when he was the cause of so much grief? How—

  


"Orophin!"

  


Haldir’s voice, frustrated and worried at the same time, seemed to break through Orophin’s thoughts, and the young elf looked up, his eyes lost and pleading. "Why?" he asked. It was the only question that could make it past the knot in his throat, and it was the only question he could not answer himself. "Why?" Orophin repeated brokenly.

  


With a sigh, Haldir bowed his head and turned away, "I do not know," he said at length. "There are many things that I do not know."

  


"I should have been there," Orophin whispered.

  


Haldir shook his head and turned back to his brother. "Nay. You could have done nothing to aid him. You would have shared his fate."

  


"I heard him cry out," Orophin murmured, seeming not to listen. "I should have gone then."

  


"We could not go," Haldir said firmly. "Our position was vital. Had we left, then those we protected would surely have fallen. You know that as well as I do. We had our duties. We could not abandon them. Orophin, do not blame yourself. If you must place blame, place it upon the dwarf."

  


Orophin blinked, not quite certain the he had heard correctly. "The dwarf? He did more for…for Rúmil than did we. He is not to blame."

  


"The dwarves are ever the bane of the elves," Haldir hissed, a strange light coming into his eyes. "Were it not for them, then—"

  


"Haldir!" Orophin interrupted. "Haldir, Gimli tried to save him. You heard what the archers from Mirkwood told us. He was trying to lead him away from the Orcs. He killed many of them when they would have—"

  


"And for what? For naught!"

  


Orophin frowned, his grief temporarily replaced by confusion and anger. "Gimli did all he could. Had I been there and failed, would you now be blaming me?"

  


"It is different," Haldir said sharply. "You cannot understand. You are too young."

  


At this statement, something deep within Orophin broke. All his life, he had endured the gentle teasing of his brothers as they called him young and inexperienced. They looked upon his curiosity and his obsessions with amused indulgence, never quite knowing what to make of him. But now, with one of those brothers gone and the other looking to fall upon prejudice as a crutch, the famous restraint of patient, tolerant Orophin shattered like breaking crystal.

  


His eyes filling with rage, Orophin drew himself up to his full height and advanced on Haldir. "Listen well, brother," he hissed. "I am young according to our kind, and I still have much to learn. But this I know and understand: Rúmil died by the hands of the Orcs. His life was prolonged by the hand of a dwarf. We owe Gimli our gratitude for facing Rúmil’s enemies alone when we could not come to his side. You and the other elves cling to ideas and hatreds long gone. There is no room for them now. How dare you call me young and tell me I do not understand when your own mind is so clouded by darkness that you can no longer see?! You are a fool, Haldir. A fool!"

  


It was Haldir’s turn to grow angry, and the returning glare almost caused Orophin to back away. "Now I see where the true folly lies," Haldir said angrily, his voice beginning to rise. "You have been tainted by these mortals. Everyone has been tainted. Valar, am I the only one who sees clearly?! I wonder now if you did not play a hand in Rúmil’s death. Perhaps because of you he trusted a mortal when he should not have!"

  


"And where were you when Rúmil was attacked?" Orophin cried, a fiery rage threatening to destroy his tattered sanity. "You say he left you to look for other scouts, but why did you not accompany him? Was it your own cowardice that killed our brother? Are you the reason he is no longer with us?"

  


Haldir looked as though he had just been stabbed in the gut by a Morgul blade. His face paled until it matched the pallor of Rúmil’s face, and he began to shake. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but no sound came forth.

  


Watching all this and feeling his sudden anger drain away, Orophin felt as though he was going to be violently ill. What had he said? Rúmil lay dead in Haldir’s arms, and he accused Haldir of being the cause of that death! Yes, he had been angry, but that was no excuse. "Haldir, I—"

  


"Silence," Haldir hissed, his countenance twisting itself into a combination of rage and guilt. "Speak no more words to me."

  


Orophin shook his head, sorrow and shame rising like swells of agony within his chest. "I did not—"

  


"Silence!" Haldir roared, turning away. "I would be alone." And suiting action to word, the older elf fled, recklessly finding his own path in the branches and quickly disappearing from Orophin’s view.

  


"Valar," Orophin murmured, dropping to one knee and catching his face in his hands. "Why? Why?!"

  


It was the question he had asked of Haldir, and now he asked it of the world, though the query had taken on greater meaning and a broader scope. But the world gave him no answers and kept its silence. And it was into silence that Orophin fell, trembling grievously as he struggled to master the emotions that were tearing through his young soul. In the end, it was too much. Collapsing against the broad trunk of a tree, Orophin finally released his tears, pouring his grief into the living wood and sobbing until his chest ached.

  


And still, the world was quiet.

  


Orophin was alone.

  


* * * *

  


His world was one of madness. He existed in a sea of darkness, devoid of all substance save for the cries of a tortured soul that had given up hope of deliverance. But though he tumbled through a shapeless void, empty and alone, his senses were screaming with input. Voices, light, heat, cold, comfort, pain, darkness…he knew them all. His ears rang. His eyes ached. His skin felt as though it was crawling with fire.

  


Legolas no longer knew where he was. He no longer knew what he was. He had lost his understanding of time and being. His memory had been reduced to a confounding jumble of pictures that merged together to create a deafening menagerie of color and sound. All sense and reason had been annihilated by the chaos that defined and mutilated his world. And so he cowered in a pitiful ball of terror, something that should never have happened to a prince of Mirkwood, a descendent of Oropher, yet his pride, also, was lost to him. All he knew was fear.

  


And rising above all this anarchic turmoil was a wave of shadow that threatened to drown and crush any resistance left to the elf. Somewhere in that cloak of night was a voice, like and yet unlike the ghosts that screamed in Legolas’s sensitive ears. It was this voice that inspired most of the fear and most of the confusion. It said things that made no sense, but since nothing made sense anyway, Legolas was compelled to believe. The darkness had rooted itself too firmly in his soul for him to ignore the voice, and so the words that it spoke twisted themselves into the elf’s mind, driving out almost all thoughts of rebellion.

  


But a tiny spark did remain. A defiant flame, hidden within the ashes of coals long dead, still burned. It was a flickering light that cowered beneath the onslaught of darkness, but it refused to go out. In Legolas’s world, this flame was his only constant, and to it he fled, hoping against hope that perhaps it might become his salvation. As the devolution of his mind and spirit progressed, he cupped this flame and held it close, savoring its searing touch as though it were a cool and soothing ointment. It flickered pitifully in his grasp, threatening to die at any moment, but it was the elf’s best hope. In truth, it was his only hope.

  


The omnipresent darkness looming above seemed to sense this tiny flame of resistance, and it descended upon the elf so quickly that he lost hold of his fire. Driven back into the void of chaos, Legolas found himself screaming, though why he was screaming he could not truly say. There were no longer any answers to the questions he might ask, and there were no longer any questions that made sense. But still the elf screamed and still the elf fought, unwilling to give in though he no longer knew why he struggled. And apparently sensing his refusal to surrender, the darkness abruptly shifted. Legolas found himself falling…

  


Falling…

  


Falling…

  


His descent was arrested by a sudden jolt, and with some amazement, Legolas discovered that he was conscious. He could still hear voices, he still feel darkness, and he could still sense chaos, but he was conscious. And at this realization, the tiny flicker of resistance flared brightly, sensing an opportunity for escape. Even if escape was not a possibility, perhaps something in reality would give Legolas the anchor he needed to better defy the shadows that sought his soul.

  


Summoning all the energy that had not been spent in the brutal fight against the darkness, Legolas somehow managed to open his eyes. He closed them again quickly, though, for his mind was not quite up to processing the things that he saw. Visual input was too overwhelming at this point in time. Struggling against a pounding headache, Legolas tried to work from details not obtained through sight so as to give his mental faculties an edge when he opened his eyes again. This conscious act of starting small and proceeding to larger things should have been viewed with great triumph, for it was one of Legolas’s first coherent thoughts in a very long time. But as before, the elf’s mind was not capable of recognizing this. And so the triumph went unnoticed, and the darkness scored yet another victory.

  


Ignorant of the fact that he was losing the battle for sanity with every moment in which he did not act, Legolas lay completely still and allowed his senses to sweep into his surroundings. His eyes remained closed, but he didn’t need sight to tell him where he was. He discovered that almost immediately. The cold, gritty stone beneath his stomach and the smell of sweat and blood gave it away. He was back in the cell. _Again_ , he moaned. And judging from the labored breathing to his right, he was not alone. Merry was also with him.

  


Now having a mental picture of his surroundings, Legolas once again tried to open his eyes. Knowing what to expect, the elf’s mind was better able to process what he saw, and so this attempt at sight was far more successful than his first. Beyond that, his mental cobwebs seemed to be vanishing, and his thought processes were speeding up, making sensory analysis easier. Unfortunately, this improvement in the elf’s mind was not matched by an improvement in his surroundings. And with a gasp of dismay and rage, Legolas looked up to see that the cell door was once again open.

  


The mental torture could not have been more agonizing for the elf. The open door was a cruel, painful sight, for Legolas knew that he could not rise and leave. Though he bore no physical restraints and though the way to freedom was unrestricted, he could not leave. The darkness trapped him as surely as any chains and manacles could have held him. He could not will himself to move. He could not leave the cell. Escape beckoned him, and Legolas was powerless to answer its call.

  


With a strangled cry of anguish that quickly became a sobbing whimper of despair, Legolas turned his head away from the cell door, hoping to distance himself from the situation. But he looked in exactly the wrong direction, and the elf’s breath caught as his eyes suddenly focused on Merry.

  


The hobbit was shaking violently, his arms wrapped tightly around his gut. His eyes were open but vacant, and a trail of saliva dribbled out of his mouth as he shuddered and moaned. Much to his dismay, Legolas found himself trying to back away in horror. He lacked the energy for such movements, but that didn’t stop his frantic need to put space between himself and Merry. He was ashamed of this desire and even more ashamed that he could not seem to suppress it even after it was acknowledged. But try as he might, Legolas could not stop the feelings of revulsion that rose within him at the sight of the hobbit. He knew not if these sensations were his own or a product of the darkness, but they were very real to Legolas and at the moment, that was all that mattered. He longed to close his eyes and fall back into the void from which he had escaped, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the hobbit. And so he watched in growing horror and dismay as Merry’s condition began to deteriorate even further.

  


"Merry?" Legolas eventually gasped, his throat raw as though he had been screaming. Perhaps if he could speak with the hobbit, he could control his reactions. "Merry?"

  


The hobbit made no answer. He was completely oblivious to his surroundings. No hint of recognition or acknowledgment entered his empty eyes. A moan would escape him from time to time, and as he moaned his arms would press hard against his abdomen as though his stomach pained him greatly. But other than this, Merry showed no indication that he was aware of himself or the outside world.

  


"Merry!" Legolas tried again as desperation started to rise within the elf. Along with it came an increase in the voices as they urged his fears onward, screaming words of betrayal into the void of his mind. Shaking his head hard and ignoring the sudden headache, Legolas tried to turn his attention back to the convulsing hobbit beside him. "Meriadoc Brandybuck!"

  


The elf didn’t know if it was these words or another factor that he could not see, but something about Merry was suddenly different. The glazed look in his eyes seemed to spread across his contorted face, and as Legolas watched with unmasked horror, Merry’s body stiffened even as it continued to shake. His skull began to slap against the floor, and his arms tightened about his stomach. His periodic moans became a constant sound, interrupted only by the hitches in his breathing brought on by the seizure. The convulsions and shaking increased, becoming so violent that Legolas was certain Merry would tear himself apart. And then Merry froze, going completely still for one horrifying second before his head snapped back as a keening, despairing wail shot into the darkness.

  


Unable to endure anymore, Legolas turning sharply away and squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to silence his ears and lock out the hobbit’s cry of agony that joined the cacophony already raging within his own mind, but no matter what he tried, Merry’s screams burned their way deep into his soul and his heart. Cold shadows followed closely on the heels of these screams, and shorn of any hope, something deep within the elf finally snapped.

  


The voices in the confusion cheered wildly as the broken shards of his mind flew far and wide, scattered by the dark wind that swept his soul. A soundless blast tore through his body, removing light and hope as it rent asunder the remainder of Legolas’s being. Pain and light flashed as lightning upon the plains of Rohan during the height of summer, and then everything went dark.

  


The world fell into silence.

 

  


 

  


 

  


 

  


 

  
__

Author’s Notes: Well, I hope we’ve all learned a valuable lesson. I know I did. Never underestimate Thranduil. ;) _Don’t overestimate him, either, though. He’s still got that fiery spark that makes the Sindar so endearing. And you’ll all note that I finally got back to Legolas and Merry. Hopefully you’re satisfied now. ;)_


	22. Comings and Goings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

His keen eyes roving across the protective forests surrounding Rivendell, Elrohir leaned against a balcony railing and sighed quietly. The afternoon was wearing on and time was slipping past them as evasively as water flowing through a sieve. The march of time could not be helped, Elrohir knew that, but it was still distressing. And in addition to being distressing, it was also raising memories of Celebrían. These memories had already been stirred by Thranduil’s remarks during the night, and now they came to the forefront of Elrohir’s thoughts once more. Those dark days had also been a period of great frustration and waiting, and the ever elusive element of time had continued to roll onward even as their frantic search for Celebrían and her captors became ever more desperate.

  


Elrohir groaned quietly and shook his head. Memories of the past and of his mother would not help them now. The situation was different and the circumstances had changed. And if it was within his power to do so, Elrohir would see that the outcome of this particular disaster was also different from that which had happened before. He had no wish to relive his mother’s tragedy, nor would he see very dear friends endure what he had endured.

  
__

Yet despite out need for haste, we must still play the interminable game of waiting, Elrohir sighed. _Would that I had been blessed with Elladan’s patience. A wait upon the eve of a battle I can endure. Or I can lie in ambush for hours if I know that my prey will be coming. But this form of waiting when both the time and the end are unknown and the strategy still a half-formed plan that changes as we are forced to improvise…Valar, but I hate this!_

  


"Good day to you, Elrohir," a quiet voice murmured from behind.

  


Turning, Elrohir bowed slightly and inclined his head. "And a good day to you, Lord Celeborn," he replied, quickly forgiving himself his lapse in concentration when he saw who had taken him unawares. Celeborn had been known to occasionally catch even Galadriel by surprise, and an elf that could do that would have little trouble in stealing up on a distracted son of Elrond. "You have been rare company these past few hours," Elrohir continued. "I have not seen you since you departed with Estel after we rode up to the main porch."

  


"I have been occupied," Celeborn answered with typical glibness. "In any case, you should not have been looking for me. You should have been resting."

  


"My thoughts are too scattered for rest," Elrohir said. "I fear that sleep would only jumble my ideas and memories further."

  


"That is a possibility," Celeborn said slowly. "However, it is more likely that your wandering mind is desperately in need of sleep and that your jumbled thoughts stem from your exhaustion. What wisdom and what advisor informed you that you should stay awake when presented with an opportunity for rest?"

  


Elrohir laughed quietly. "I think that none intentionally advised me in this course of action, but it is one my father often took, and Glorfindel and Erestor with him."

  


"You were surrounded by harmful examples, then," Celeborn surmised. "It is a great pity."

  


"And I suppose that my mother was not surrounded by harmful examples?"

  


"Nay, your mother was gifted with exceptional parents."

  


Laughing, Elrohir turned away and rested his eyes once more on the forests. The memories of Celebrían were still tender, but speaking with Celeborn always had a tendency to set his feelings to rest and Elrohir felt better now. He still did not feel like sleeping, but that was a moot point. There was very little time left in which to rest before they would need to head back for the trail. And they would have to move soon, for if Thranduil was still intent on separating and looking for the Orcs’ stronghold without using the path, then it was best they get there before the searchers split apart.

  


"I am coming with you."

  


Elrohir blinked and looked over at his grandfather. "Pardon?"

  


"I will be coming with you this night. I have spoken with Arwen and she has agreed to take charge of Rivendell in our absence."

  


"It is not my place to contest your decision and I have no authority to do so, but I am curious at this change," Elrohir said, his eyes narrowing. "My brother mentioned that you might have discovered something of worth in the library. Has this prompted you to join us?"

  


"That and other things," Celeborn said laconically.

  


"If I may be so bold, what is it that you have found?"

  


"Did Elladan tell you aught?" Celeborn asked, turning his eyes toward Elrohir and pinning his grandson beneath the weight of his gaze.

  


"He told us to think on Amandil and Númenor," Elrohir answered, wondering exactly how Celeborn always managed to turn questions back on themselves. "But as for what he meant, or for what you meant, I do not know."

  


"What of Aragorn? Had he any reaction to such words?"

  


"He knew nor more than we."

  


"And Thranduil?"

  


Elrohir thought for a moment. "I believe he did know something. I am hard-pressed to say exactly what he remembered as he would not speak of it, but I believe your words meant something to the king of Mirkwood."

  


"If he reaches the same conclusion that I reached, then it is probable that the conclusion is correct," Celeborn murmured, as if to himself.

  


"And what conclusion would that be?" Elrohir asked, growing weary with this game.

  


Celeborn sighed and a shadow seemed to pass over his face. "I have no desire to repeat this, and so I would wait until all are gathered to hear. Perhaps when we join the others come evening. If his thoughts parallel mine, then Thranduil will be able to corroborate my suspicions. However," he continued, apparently sensing the imminent protest on Elrohir’s part, "if you would be informed now, go to Arwen. I have told her of my theories. I do not think she believes me, but perhaps that is her way of handling unpleasant possibilities."

  


Elrohir grimaced. "If you will not tell me, then she will certainly not provide answers. Arwen can be as silent as my father when she is troubled. If she does not like something and wishes to avoid speaking of it, then no words of mine will pry things from her." With a shake of his head, Elrohir rested against the railing once more and watched the afternoon sun as it played upon newly grown leaves. "Do you realize what day it is today?" he asked.

  


"It would depend upon your reckoning," Celeborn answered quietly. "In the Shire, it is the 24th of March. However, in other lands, it is New Year’s Eve."

  


"My father would laugh if he could see me now," Elrohir murmured. "Never before has a holiday of this magnitude gone by but what Elladan and I were not creating mischief of some kind."

  


"The tales of Rivendell’s celebrations and subsequent disasters reached us in Lothlórien," Celeborn said with a slight laugh. "We have our own tales, but they do not quite hold a candle to stories of your own exploits."

  


"Oh? My father once heard an interesting rumor from King Thranduil, who in turn heard it from Rúmil of Lórien. Was there not one year in which something odd happened to Lady Galadriel’s mirror?"

  


"A rumor, nothing more," Celeborn answered, but there was a strange spark of humor in his eyes as though memories had been stirred.

  


"They say that the spring from which grandmother filled her mirror ran blue that day."

  


"They say many things, but you should know better than to listen to idle gossip."

  


"Is it idle gossip?" Elrohir challenged.

  


"I am Celeborn of Doriath, Lord of Lothlórien," his grandfather answered with a sniff that would have done Fëanor justice. "What else could it be?"

  


"Ah." Elrohir didn’t know quite how to respond to that, so he let the discussion slide. But he made a mental note to seek out Elladan and share this exchange with his brother. Elrond had not been very explicit when relating the tale that he had heard from Thranduil, but the scant details available had been so tantalizing that the twins had chased after specifics ever since.

  


"In any case, do not trouble yourself over missed opportunities for mischief," Celeborn said, his voice soft and sad. "This particular New Year’s Eve is hardly conducive to celebrations or levity. Save your scheming for the Orcs. They are far more deserving of it." There was a pause, then, and it felt as though Celeborn had more to say, but he fell strangely silent. Glancing over curiously, Elrohir frowned as he noticed that Celeborn had tensed, his sharp eyes watching the grounds of Rivendell closely.

  


"Lord Celeborn?"

  


"Some of the searchers have returned early," Celeborn said quietly, pushing away from the balcony and heading for the halls that would lead him to the main porch. Confused and alarmed, Elrohir turned his attention back to the forests, his own eyes quickly searching beneath the thick boughs. It did not take him long to discover what his grandfather had seen, and he gasped quietly. Elves were making their way toward Rivendell with great haste. They bore with them litters and bodies.

  


Cursing loudly, Elrohir hurried after his grandfather, rushing into suddenly busy corridors and nearly colliding with Arwen, who had also been informed of the returning elves and was likewise rushing to greet them. "Arwen, what tidings?" Elrohir demanded, hoping that his sister had heard more than he.

  


"Some of the perimeter guards have reported in," Arwen answered. "They say that those returning bear both wounded and dead. Some have been poisoned and others have died upon the way."

  


"Do they know what happened?"

  


"Those I spoke with did not, but I fear we shall learn all too soon what befell our kinsmen."

  


"Is Estel awake?" Elrohir asked.

  


"He was sleeping when last I looked, but I fear the commotion outside will rouse him," Arwen said, her voice carrying a note of frustration. "And being Estel, he will come to aid us. Valar, he was so exhausted that he could barely speak to me ere I put him to bed! He needs more rest."

  


"As do you," Elrohir chided gently. "And there will be rest when this is over, that I promise you."

  


"May your good word hold true, then, for I doubt that anything else will," Arwen sighed as they raced beneath an archway and arrived at the main porch where everyone seemed to be gathering. At that point, Arwen immediately began pulling elves aside and directing some to the sickrooms while others were instructed to procure healing herbs and draughts.

  


Leaving the care of the wounded and deceased to the queen of Gondor, Elrohir went in search of Celeborn and those commanding this return party. He eventually found him standing to one side and talking with Ithildae and a rather dazed-looking Haldir. "What news?" he demanded, hurrying over to join their conversation.

  


"We were attacked, my lord," Ithildae reported, bowing slightly as Elrohir stopped beside him. "The darkness hid them from our senses, and by the time we realized their true number, we had already engaged them in battle. They were primarily Uruk-hai, but some of the archers say there were also mountain goblins among them. We believe them to be of the same group who kidnapped Prince Legolas and Meriadoc Brandybuck."

  


"Are these Orcs still attacking?" Elrohir asked, glancing at Celeborn who seemed to be drifting closer to Haldir.

  


"They were routed, my lord, yet it was not without cost," Ithildae sighed. "They tipped their arrows with poison. Unfortunately, we did not know what poison was used."

  


"My brother?" Elrohir pressed. "What of Lord Elladan? And King Thranduil? How do they fare?"

  


"Both were well when we left. It was King Thranduil who ordered the march of our party. My liege also requests that supplies and weapons be brought when we return to them this evening."

  


"We shall see that it is done," Celeborn promised, one hand drifting over to rest upon Haldir’s shoulder. "Have you anything to add to this, Haldir?"

  


Haldir started as though only now realizing he was being addressed. Glancing around the faces that watched him with a mixture of concern and confusion, he cast his eyes down and shuddered. "Nay, my lord. It is as Ithildae has spoken."

  


Celeborn frowned and looked back to Ithildae, his glance demanding an answer.

  


"Rúmil was lost in the attack, my lord" Ithildae said quietly in response to the unspoken question, nodding toward an area where some of the dead had been laid. "The dwarf, Gimli, attempted to buy him time to escape, but by then, it was already too late."

  


"Were it not for the dwarf, he might still be alive," Haldir murmured, his voice fierce and his eyes flashing as he glanced up.

  


Elrohir tensed, hearing undertones of a fiery rage and a deep hatred in Haldir’s voice. Celeborn also stiffened, apparently sharing Elrohir’s thoughts that more division could be fatal at this point in the game. "What of Orophin, Haldir?" the lord of Lothlórien asked, his voice gentle but firm. "Why is he not with you? Surely he grieves as well."

  


Haldir blinked and started. "Orophin?" he whispered, his eyes searching the elves now gathered on the porch. "He is not here?"

  


Sensing that coherent thoughts were currently not a part of Haldir’s mental makeup, Celeborn once again raised a questioning eyebrow at Ithildae. "Know you where Orophin is? He is brother to Haldir and Rúmil. Surely he would have accompanied them here."

  


"He was in the party, my lord," Ithildae answered, looking around with a puzzled frown. "For the first part of the journey, he was carrying Rúmil. But it now occurs to me that I lost sight of him after Haldir took the body. Perhaps he—"

  


"I left him," Haldir suddenly breathed, a look of horror filling his face. "I bade him leave, and then he did not follow. I said words…words that should never have been spoken and—"

  


"Peace, my friend," Elrohir interrupted quickly. He did not know what had been said, but he remembered well his own rage and anger following his mother’s captivity. He had said many things to both his father and his brother that he regretted even now, and he suspected that Haldir had done likewise. "Peace. Your words came from grief. You could not stop them."

  


"But—"

  


"Haldir, seek out your quarters," Celeborn said quietly. "I will send a healer to you and you will take what draughts they give you.

  


"My lord, what of Orophin?" Haldir protested, his eyes wide with confusion and fear. "I—"

  


" _You_ will do as ordered and _we_ will see to your brothers. Both of them," Celeborn said, his tone one that would not be countermanded. "Now shall I call an escort? Or am I able to trust you in this task?"

  


Haldir bowed his head, his shoulders trembling. "I heed your command, Lord Celeborn. I will await further instruction in my own quarters."

  


Celeborn nodded and Haldir moved away, but something about his walk made Elrohir frown. That had been too easy. Far too easy. It was clear that Rúmil’s death had driven Haldir partially out of his mind. In his present state of confusion, he should not have so quickly and willingly acquiesced to Celeborn’s orders. Haldir had something of his own in mind, but as for what that something was, Elrohir could not say.

  


"Someone should go with him," a new voice counseled.

  


Elrohir scowled and sighed in frustration. "Estel, you were sent to rest."

  


"And so I did," Aragorn answered as he joined the others. The king of Gondor could not quite keep back a wide yawn and he looked exhausted, but he was a marked improvement over the stumbling creature that had returned from a long night of hunting. "And I say again that someone should go with Haldir. Or at least follow him."

  


"Your counsel is good," Celeborn murmured. "Ithildae, go now and see that Haldir reaches his quarters. After that, procure weapons from the armory. Take others with you and distribute the supplies as needed among those who will be returning." The Mirkwood scout nodded at the instructions, gave a quick bow to those gathered around him, and left.

  


"At least you bathed," Elrohir muttered with a shake of his head, studying Aragorn’s harried form. "I could barely tell your smell from that of an Orc’s."

  


"Your own stench would have earned you little renown among the spring flowers," Aragorn retorted. The king looked toward one end of the porch and grimaced slightly as his eyes moved over the bodies. "How many?"

  


"Too many," Celeborn answered grimly. "Ithildae reported that they attacked what they believed was a small scout group. Unfortunately, they were deceived and learned not the numbers of their enemy until it was too late. I suspect there was great interference from the shadows upon the ground. And if I know anything of Thranduil, he had many of his own elves spread far and wide in an effort to discover something of the movement of Orcs. That would have only made things worse. We are fortunate the death count is not higher."

  


"There was poison upon the tips of the arrows," Elrohir reminded Celeborn. "The numbers are still climbing."

  


"That much I knew already," Aragorn said quietly, almost to himself. "I cared for a few of the arrow wounds ere joining you here, but I did not recognize the poison. Perhaps it is some variant of a foul potion concocted by Saruman. That would not seem impossible given that among these Orcs are many of the Uruk-hai. Unfortunately, we can do naught for those injured save to make them comfortable and try such remedies as are already known to us."

  


"Does Arwen require assistance?" Celeborn asked.

  


Aragorn shook his head. "Nay, she has things well in hand. Many are helping already, and it seems that the healers were prepared ere this party ever reached Rivendell."

  


"Then that gives those of us who are yet hale the opportunity to resume the hunt," Celeborn said. "And it is high time that we hearken to Thranduil’s suggestion of leaving the known trail."

  


"Do you intend to join us?" Aragorn asked, his brow furrowing.

  


"I do," the lord of Lothlórien answered. "For you shall need all possible aid in rescuing the captives, and once rescued, bringing them home may also prove difficult."

  


"And from this statement, I judge that you know or guess something of the condition in which we will find Legolas and Merry," Aragorn said, some of the weary look fading from his eyes as he studied Celeborn. "Elladan said as much this morning. When shall the rest of us hear your words?"

  


"When we are all gathered together," Celeborn answered, giving Aragorn essentially the same answer that he had already given Elrohir. "Elladan and Thranduil are not present to hear our words."

  


"Then if we are to wait, we must remember to include Gimli, Pippin, and Sam in our discussion," Aragorn warned. "The three of them are as anxious as any, and I fear what Gimli might do should we deny him any information."

  


"It may be his wish to continue in ignorance," Celeborn cautioned.

  


"That should be his choice, not ours," Aragorn said softly, but his words were tempered with steel.

  


"And it will be," Elrohir interrupted, not missing the note of frustration within Aragorn’s voice. For his part, Elrohir did not understand the bond between Gimli and the youngest prince of Mirkwood, but of late, Legolas had become extremely defensive in elven circles whenever Gimli’s name was mentioned. It seemed that Aragorn was taking over that role in Legolas’s absence, which was quite possibly the last thing that they needed. Aragorn was impossible to work with when he became defensive. "Come now, and let us leave the care of the wounded to Arwen and the healers. For ourselves, we must prepare to depart once more. I wish to leave as soon as Ithildae arranges supplies."

  


"You speak for me as well, Elrohir," Celeborn said, accepting the change in topic. "I counsel that we gather at the stables so as not to interfere here."

  


"Then I will see you there shortly," Aragorn said, his voice still carrying tones of frustration. "I shall send word of the plan to my men, for since we are now quite near the stronghold, they will also be joining us upon the ground."

  


"Take care that you keep them in large groups, Estel," Elrohir warned. "The darkness is not to be underestimated, and it seems to be capable of turning friend against friend."

  


"Well do I know it," the king of Gondor murmured, glancing curiously at Celeborn who seemed to have stiffened at Elrohir’s comment. "I will meet you at the stables, then. And Valar willing, this night will witness the liberation of those who have been taken."

  


"Valar willing," Elrohir echoed as Aragorn moved away. But he was not feeling quite as hopeful as his foster brother. Celeborn’s earlier comments about problems in getting the captives home kept edging their way to the forefront of his mind, and he could not seem to shake the feeling that liberation was only a small part of the process. They would still have a long way to go before this was through.

  


* * * *

  


With multiple thoughts pulling her in multiple directions, Arwen almost missed the small voice that suddenly cried her name. But her hearing, though somewhat dimmed by mortality, was still quite sharp, and the fear in the voice that called her could not be ignored.

  


Stopping on the edge of the porch and glancing around, Arwen’s eyes soon came to rest on Rosie, who was hovering in a doorway and holding a squirming Elanor tightly. "What is happening?" Rosie asked when she saw that she had Arwen’s attention. Wide, frightened eyes looked around the porch that was still a sea of chaos as elves darted here and there with draughts and healing herbs. Moans from the wounded added to the general confusion of sound and movement, and pity stabbed at Arwen’s heart. This sheltered hobbit had never seen the aftermath of a battle before. She had never seen the terrible cost inflicted by armed confrontation. And she had certainly never seen such a commotion among the elves. It was very much at odds with the quiet spirit of Rivendell, and the peace of the valley had been shattered.

  


"Our forces were attacked in the forest," Arwen answered quietly, moving over to Rosie and running a gentle hand down Elanor’s face, calming the child with touch and a whispered word in Elvish. "Fear not, though. I have already inquired, and your husband is well, as is Peregrin Took."

  


"They’re here?"

  


Arwen shook her head. "They were not injured and so remained in the forest. But some of the elves who returned saw them reach safety, and all witnesses report that they were unscathed."

  


A portion of the fear in Rosie’s face died away and she nodded. "Thank you. I…I just needed to know that they were all right." The hobbit turned her eyes back again to the chaos on the porch, and she shifted Elanor on her hip. "How can I help?"

  


This brought a smile to Arwen’s face as she remembered Gandalf’s words about never being able to truly understand hobbits. It seemed there was always another surprise waiting when one dealt with these small but valiant beings. "Do you remember those leaves we sorted earlier today?" Arwen asked, thinking of a task that would allow Rosie to watch Elanor and yet still be useful. "If you could fetch as many as you can, it will give the wounded some comfort and allow the healers to work."

  


"Where do you want me to bring the leaves?" the hobbit asked. "You’re not tending the wounded here, are you? Wouldn’t they be better off inside?"

  


"Some of the wounded must be sedated before moving any further," Arwen said. "Bring the leaves here first and look for me. If I am not here, find a healer and ask for further instructions. Go now, my friend, and quickly. We must make haste."

  


Rosie nodded hurriedly and rushed off, swiftly vanishing into the main part of the house. With a sigh, Arwen turned around to resume her duties only to walk right into her husband, who had moved to block her path.

  


"Arwen, I am leaving soon," Aragorn announced, getting straight to the point. "Have you need of any assistance in tending the wounded ere we depart?"

  


"You intend to go back?" Arwen demanded, studying his harried face. "Have you even looked at yourself? You are only moments away from collapsing!"

  


"I shall manage," Aragorn assured her, his weary eyes hardening.

  


Realizing that she had just stung his pride and that further reasoning was probably now a lost cause, Arwen shook her head and moved around him. If Aragorn wanted to dispense with the courtesies, then she would oblige him. "What aid could you provide?" she asked. "You will be gone ere you can do much here. Perhaps it would be best if you removed yourself so that you are not a hindrance. Your stumbling feet and wandering mind can be of no help. You are little better than the wounded themselves in your current state."

  


"Arwen?!"

  


"Go now. I have no need for you here."

  


A soft hiss of breath was the only reaction Aragorn gave to her words, but it was enough to let Arwen know she had hurt him. A pang of conscience began to prick her heart, but her emotions were less than logical at the moment and everything seemed to be pushing its way to the surface. She feared for Elladan, Thranduil, Pippin, and Sam, who were still somewhere in the darkness. She feared for Celeborn, Elrohir, and Aragorn, who now seemed intent on joining them. She feared greatly for Legolas and Merry, especially since she knew now what was happening to them. She had been slow to accept this knowledge, but the truth and conviction of Celeborn’s words could not be held at bay by any wishful thinking on her part.

  


Someone suddenly took her arm and pulled her to the side, gently but firmly ushering her through a doorway and finding a small corridor that afforded them a measure of privacy. "Arwen, what is this?" Aragorn asked, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and concern. "Why do you shun my aid?"

  


"Why do you shun my counsel?" she challenged. "You are not fit to join the others!"

  


"They are unfit themselves. None of us are truly well enough to return to the darkness, and those within it are certainly not in any condition to stay. But would you leave Legolas and Merry to their fates while the rest of us sit idle? Arwen, we must act. There is no time left!"

  


"And because there is no time, I would have you release me so that I may see to those who are wounded," Arwen snapped, though she made no move to pull away.

  


"And I would also see to the wounded. Tell me where I can be of aid!"

  


"You can be of aid in your own quarters asleep in your own bed!"

  


"Arwen!" Aragorn shook his head, his face contorting with both confusion and frustration. "Arwen, this is not like you. I have left Rivendell many times in conditions far worse than my present state, and each time was one where my actions were dictated by necessity. This is no different!"

  


Arwen closed her eyes and turned away, pulling her arm free of Aragorn’s hold. "I fear for you."

  


"By that, do you mean that you did not fear for me in the past?"

  


Her anger flashed and she turned back to him, her eyes carrying a look of warning. "Do you doubt my love? Do you question my sacrifice for you? I feared every day you were gone!"

  


"Then why this scene now?" Aragorn demanded, undaunted by her sudden rage. "You have never attempted to restrain me before!"

  


Arwen blinked, her anger abruptly dying at the question. Why indeed? Why this scene now? She lowered her eyes, searching her mind for an answer, and eventually she began to understand some of her own reticence and some of her own fear. "I never comprehended mortality before," she whispered at length.

  


There was a moment of silence in response to this, and then Aragorn caught her face in his hand, raising her chin. "Arwen?" he questioned, his eyes perplexed.

  


"Aragorn, when you left Rivendell as a Ranger, I feared for you, but I knew I would see you again," she attempted to explain." There was no doubt for I did not believe in death. It was too far removed from me."

  


"I have always been mortal," Aragorn said, but his voice was gentler now and confusion was giving way to understanding. "That has not changed."

  


"But _I_ have changed!" she shouted, stepping away from him. "I have changed, and I now understand as I did not before. Aragorn, I now understand the meaning of time. I understand why mortals are so concerned with the passing of years and seasons. I now count the loss of every day and every hour. By Elbereth, even the seconds are precious to me! I know what it means to be mortal. I know what it means to live with the threat of death lingering over every breath I take. I know what you have endured all the short years of your life, and I do not want to face mortality alone!"

  


"You will not," Aragorn said, his voice soft but confident. Stepping forward, he took her hands and pulled her toward him. "I will return. I promise you that."

  


"How can you promise something over which you have no control!?" Arwen demanded. "Your life can be taken from you as quickly as it was taken from the elves that died today."

  


"Hush, Arwen," Aragorn soothed, pulling her against him. She stiffened in the embrace, but her emotions were screaming for solace and she eventually rested her head upon his shoulder. She shed no tears, but she trembled as she began to release the anger and the frustration that had been building ever since Legolas and Merry disappeared. "Peace," Aragorn murmured, stroking her hair. "Peace, and think on the days when you would bid me farewell at the Ford. I would vanish into the Wilds for months and years at a time, Arwen. It is better now. Easier. I shall be gone only days at the most. And while you are right in that I cannot promise to return, I make it my solemn vow to do so. I have faced things far more dangerous than Orcs, Arwen. They shall not take me so easily from your side. Not after all our years of waiting."

  


Arwen was silent for a few moments and then she nodded, pulling but. "My apologies. I fear I still have much to learn."

  


"No apologies are necessary," Aragorn assured her. "And your concern is appreciated."

  


"But it still remains that you are in no condition to pursue Orcs," Arwen protested, her fears once again rising. "When first I found you in our room, you could not even keep your eyes open."

  


"You are probably right," Aragorn answered. "In all likelihood, I am not ready to resume the hunt and would benefit much from further rest. But I would deny my very nature were I to remain here. You say you understand the perils of mortality now. If that is so, I bid you think on Legolas and Merry. Their danger grows with every moment of delay. Please understand this. Please understand that I must go."

  


"Then go," Arwen said with a quiet sigh, trying to silence the fears and doubts of her heart. She understood them better now, and in a way, that made them easier to control. They were still present, but they were manageable now. Beyond that, she heard a note of resolve in Aragorn’s voice that she recognized well, and not even her father had ever been able to gainsay Aragorn when he had decided so firmly upon something. "Be safe and be swift," she counseled, caressing his weathered cheek. "Celeborn has told me of his suspicions. I will not repeat them for you as it would be better to hear such things from him, but we face a very great evil, Estel. Take care."

  


"I will," the king of Gondor promised. "Are you certain that you do not need aid in healing, though?"

  


"The longer you stay, the harder it shall be to watch you leave," Arwen answered, looking away from her husband.

  


"Then I will join Elrohir and Celeborn near the stables," Aragorn said quietly. "But ere I go, I have a favor to ask. Rúmil of Lothlórien was killed in the attack, and his brother Haldir is not taking his death well. I ask that you stop and check on him ere you are too deeply involved in other matters. From the bits of conversation I overheard, I think Haldir blames Gimli for Rúmil’s death, though I do not understand how he arrived at such a conclusion."

  


"Grief is rarely logical," Arwen said.

  


"Nay, it is not," Aragorn conceded with a sigh. "Moreover, his youngest brother Orophin is now missing and I fear what this may do to Haldir’s mind. We sent him to his quarters, and it is my belief that he should be sedated. Sleep might work many wonders for him."

  


"I will look in on him," Arwen promised. "And we shall do all within our power to aid him. Now farewell, Aragorn. My blessings and the blessings of Rivendell go with you."

  


"I will not be long," Aragorn said, drawing her back to him for a quick but rather substantial kiss. "Farewell." And with that, he was gone, moving out onto the porch and disappearing in the crowd.

  


Deciding that the hustle and bustle of the healers would be too much for her at the moment and knowing that they would have the situation well in hand, Arwen turned away and began journeying toward the numerous guest quarters housed in the eastern wing of her father’s home. She would fulfill Aragorn’s request first and look in upon Haldir. It would give her time to regain her composure, and it might help to focus her attention upon another. Perhaps by aiding Haldir in his grief, she would come to a better understanding of the fears and concerns that possessed her own heart.

  


Twisting down a winding maze of corridors that Arwen knew so well she could walk them blind, she eventually came to the area where the elves from Lothlórien had been housed. Normally she would have no knowledge of where a particular elf of the Lothlórien contingent would be staying, but Haldir was one of Celeborn’s top captains and had been given a room with three beds so that he and his three brothers might stay together. There were very few rooms with such accommodations, and so Arwen knew exactly where to go.

  


She passed a few healers in the hallway that seemed to be preparing bedrooms to act as additional sickrooms, and her heart sank within her. She had always sorrowed for the loss of life and the price exacted by war, but now, the emotions were even more poignant. Even the thought of injuries gave her chills, for she knew now the frailty of a mortal body. It could fall prey to infection much faster than an elven body, and disease was a constant concern when tending to injured men. And even though the wounded in this case were elves, the fear did not easily leave her. Perhaps this was why Aragorn became so protective when one of his friends was injured. He also knew the limitations of a mortal frame, and he knew the dangers that even a small wound could cause. And yet despite this knowledge, he was risking his life on the trail of Orcs while his mind was locked in a sleepy haze that—

  
__

These thoughts do nothing for me, Arwen furiously berated herself, attempting to pull her mind onto a more productive course. _Center yourself, daughter of Elrond, so that you might be of aid to another. You can help none of those around you in this pitiful state. Cease to dwell on your fears and concentrate instead on that which must be done._

  


Taking a deep breath and making use of a Sindarin meditation technique—a technique that she had learned from Gimli, strangely enough—Arwen closed her eyes, relaxed her mind, and willed the stresses of the day to depart. Exhaling until her lungs were completely emptied, she paused before inhaling and completely cleared her thoughts. Now a bit more centered, she opened her eyes and resumed her journey. She was still frightened and she was still frustrated, but her mind had a crisper focus about it now. That would have to be enough.

  


Stopping before the room where Haldir and his brothers were staying, she rapped lightly on the frame and called quietly. "Haldir? Haldir, it is Arwen. I would speak with you." The queen of Gondor waited expectantly for a moment, but her only answer was silence. Feeling that something was not quite right, she eased the door open slowly and stepped inside. "Haldir?" she called again, wondering if perhaps he was sleeping. Yet something said otherwise, and as she stepped across the threshold, her instincts were validated.

  


Haldir was gone. There was no sign of him anywhere. He had certainly been here, for some of his arrows that had been damaged in the fight lay near the bed, but Haldir himself was nowhere to be seen. His quiver, bow, and sword were also absent.

  


"By the Valar, Haldir, where have you gone?" Arwen demanded, backing out of the room and glancing up and down the hallway. It was entirely possible that Haldir had decided to help the healers, but Arwen knew otherwise. If Aragorn had been concerned enough to send her to Haldir’s side, then Haldir’s state of mind was probably haphazard at best. And now he was missing.

  
__

He could not have gone far, Arwen reasoned, hurrying back toward the porch. _Someone would have seen him and requested his aid in caring for the wounded, if nothing else. He would have been stopped._

  


Swinging quickly around a corner, Arwen was forced to suddenly sidestep as she almost collided with an elf wearing the colors of Mirkwood. For his part, the elf seemed equally startled and actually jumped back a pace, nearly dropping the quivers and bows that he was carrying. "My apologies, Queen Arwen," he hurriedly said. "I was not aware of your coming."

  


Stunned for only a moment, Arwen’s mind flashed with recognition "Ithildae?" she asked, hoping she had the name right. When the archer nodded, she breathed a sigh of relief and continued. "Ithildae, I am looking for an elf named Haldir. He hails from Lothlórien. Do you know of whom I speak?"

  


"He is not in his quarters, my lady?" Ithildae asked, his eyes narrowing.

  


"Nay, he is not. Have you seen him in the hallways?"

  


"I have seen nothing of him since escorting him to his room in the hope that he would find rest," Ithildae answered. "Come, we must make this known and send out elves looking for him."

  


"You escorted him?" Arwen echoed. "Can you tell me something of his condition? King Elessar seemed concerned."

  


"He has cause for concern, my lady," Ithildae said, hurrying down the hall and forcing Arwen to match his pace. "I came upon my own liege, King Thranduil, and Haldir of Lothlórien ere we departed with the wounded. Haldir was intent upon seeing that the dwarf paid for Rúmil’s death. He is not thinking clearly, and I fear that he has gone to make good on his threats."

  


"I was told something of this," Arwen said, thinking rapidly. "But are you certain that he would seek Gimli’s life?"

  


"He already has. The dwarf lives because Haldir was stopped by my king. Valar, it is that cursed darkness that does this," Ithildae swore softly. "It sets us one against another and dulls our senses. And by the time we realize the cause, it is too late!"

  


"And Haldir is heading back to it," Arwen whispered. "All evils shall play into our enemy’s hands, this more than any. We cannot afford to be so divided!"

  


"Moreover, it may be too late to stop him," Ithildae said grimly. "No matter what searchers we send, Haldir is already ahead of us. He knows his course while we must track him, and tracking a marchwarden of Lothlórien is a task I would not wish on anyone."

  


"We have no other options," Arwen sighed. "Come! Every minute is precious."

 

  


 

  


 


	23. Twisting Vision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

Haldir could not say how long he ran. He took no conscious thought for direction but rather placed his trust in his instincts, hoping that they would lead him to his brother. Initially he raced through the branches, but his balance was so uncertain that he quickly moved back to the earth, a sense of self-preservation telling him that it was safer there for the time being. Even so, he still stumbled over obstacles in his path, and so blind was his flight that more than once he collapsed to the ground and could not say why. Had any been there to witness his faltering feet, they might have recoiled at the sight of an elf so distraught, so grief-stricken, and so enraged that he could not even stay upright. But none were present, and so Haldir continued his frantic, desperate race to find Orophin, unaware of just how precarious his hold on sanity had become.

  


Not that he was completely without sense. Haldir had retained enough clarity of thought to escape from Rivendell undetected. In retrospect, it had been ridiculously easy. With concern focused on the dead and the wounded as well as the preparations for departure, few were keeping a close watch on the surrounding forest. The simple scouts left to patrol the boundaries were no match for the woodcraft and stealth of Lothlórien’s chief marchwarden. He had slipped past their guard as easily as one might deceive a young and trusting child.

  


But after passing the border wardens, Haldir’s quasi-lucidity had left him. It was then that he began to stumble, weary with shame and fear. Anger, too, was there in abundance, and his heart felt so torn within him that he was amazed he still lived. Only two goals kept him moving forward: He had to find his brother, and he had to kill the dwarf. He truly did not know which goal he should seek first. Killing the dwarf would assuage his need for vengeance, but the words he remembered saying to Orophin caused his stomach to knot and twist. Orophin was still so young for an elf, and this was his first real experience with grief. He had been too small at the time of their father’s passing to understand what had happened, and Haldir and Rúmil had taken it upon themselves to shelter him from the full shock of the experience. Even now, there were things about his father’s death near Dol Guldur that Orophin did not know, and if Haldir had any say in it, his youngest brother would never learn of these things.

  


Unfortunately, Rúmil’s death could not be softened for Orophin’s sake. And Haldir should have been there for his youngest brother, but instead, he had pushed him away. No, the dwarf could wait. Vengeance could wait. Orophin, on the other hand, could not wait.

  


Shaking his head and trying to clear his mind from the jumble of emotions that assailed him, Haldir once again missed seeing a tree root, and he stumbled hard to the ground. Cursing the fates and slamming his fist into the rich earth, Haldir looked up and froze. Before him, not more than a few steps away, a sheet of darkness writhed and twisted. Haldir had reached the point where he would have to take to the trees again. He could not risk walking through that evil. He had sensed its touch when he had descended to the ground in a vain attempt to save Rúmil, and he had felt the influence of a shadow so powerful that it had shocked him to the very core. Seeing Rúmil’s lifeless face had completely torn him open, and when he had knelt next to his dying brother even as darkness swirled about him, he had been certain that all of reality was coming to an end. He saw again Gimli, hovering over Rúmil with horror-filled eyes that spoke of shock and despair…

  
__

Shock and despair?

  


Somewhere deep in Haldir’s mind, the sensible part of him started to break free. Struggling against the clouds of grief and rage, the thought occurred to him that perhaps the dwarf had not been at fault.

  


It was such a startling idea that Haldir—about to resume the journey in the treetops—froze. Watching the shadows suspiciously, he frowned and called to memory the last moments of Rúmil’s life. It was a difficult process and grief pounded relentlessly at his soul, but he forced himself to do it. Something strange was at work here, and the more rational portion of his mind was beginning to exert itself. Long years of patrolling Lothlórien’s borders against the threat of darkness also came into play, and caught by his habit of mistrusting everything until it was proven beyond a shadow of a doubt, Haldir slowly combed over the events leading to his brother’s death.

  


Rúmil had been running. Blood had soaked the right leg of his pants. He had been injured. He…he had not been able to put weight on his injured leg. No, that was not right. He had clearly been running. Yet how…the dwarf? The dwarf had been helping him?

  


"Nay," Haldir whispered. "Nay, that cannot be. The dwarf is to blame. Were it not for him, then…"

  


He trailed off, confused, and the logical side of Haldir—a side that had enabled him to be one of the most effective marchwardens in Lórien’s history as well as a mediator between brothers who were diametric opposites—began to come forth. _Were it not for the dwarf, then what?_ it questioned. _What? Rúmil would not have survived as long as he did. Gimli had been helping him. He had moved him behind trees in order to avoid arrows, risking his own safety in the hopes that others would come to their aid. It was the arrow of an Orc that struck Rúmil down at the last. It was no fault of Gimli’s._

  


"But it was the dwarf!" Haldir insisted, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. "It was him! I know it was him!"

  
__

Fool! How do you know? You saw nothing to incriminate Gimli. You saw nothing that is worthy of your ire. Rúmil was beyond help when you arrived!

  


Haldir shook his head violently. It was impossible. There was nothing more to say on the subject. And yet…the more he considered it, the more his thoughts began to change. And sensing victory, the logical portion of his mind redirected him to his final moments with Rúmil.

  


Haldir had been almost immersed in the darkness. He had been kneeling. He had lifted Rúmil off the ground with Orophin’s aid. His emotions had been chaotic. His mind and his thoughts had not been guarded. By chance, his eyes had fallen upon Gimli, whose expression of sorrow and guilt triggered something within Haldir. Somehow, he had become convinced that the dwarf was to blame.

  


"But he was not," Haldir whispered, feeling a whisper of darkness slide away from his thoughts. "He was not at fault. How did I err? Why did I think otherwise?"

  


Confused and frightened, the elf once again returned to his memories, but he could find no logical reason for concluding that Gimli was responsible for Rúmil’s death. Yet the idea had become so firmly implanted in his mind that he had come dangerously close to murdering the dwarf. His mind had been consumed by the idea of vengeance. Had Thranduil not been there to stop him…

  


"Sweet Elbereth," Haldir breathed, his eyes widening. "If this is what we face, then…Orophin!"

  


With no further hesitation and none of the faltering steps that had slowed him before, Haldir leaped into the branches and raced forward. As before, he let instinct guide him while his mind became consumed by one horrible thought. Orophin was still out there in the darkness. Orophin had been blaming himself. And if the shadows that had affected Haldir’s mind were now affecting his brother’s…

  


Once again, Haldir could not say how long he ran. Intimately familiar with travel in the trees, he moved from one limb to another with such haste that all else became a blur. And finally, as he leaped off of one branch and skidded onto another, a flood of recognition hit him. This was where they had fought. This was where he had taken Rúmil from Orophin’s arms and then left, believing that Orophin would follow. How he remembered this place he could not say, for his mind had been clouded at the time. But his instincts were certain of his location, and he had trusted them too often in Lothlórien to begin doubting them now.

  


"Orophin?" he called, looking for signs of where his brother might have gone. "Orophin?"

  


There was no answer, and terror squeezed Haldir’s heart. The forest was completely still, the only movement coming from occasional ripples in the shadows below. But they, too, seemed strangely calm. Before, they had occasionally boiled up in violent turbulence, much like a summer storm would play havoc with a lake or pool. Yet now… Something had happened, and the will that drove these shadows was slowly dying away. The thought should have been comforting.

  


It was not.

  
__

It is almost as if the shadows have accomplished their goal, Haldir decided, watching them suspiciously. _Now, they only serve to cloud our eyes and diminish our senses. I do not feel their influence in my mind. They no longer seek to control._

  


Shaking his head, Haldir grimaced and then turned back to the task of hunting Orophin. With the mists of darkness dormant, some of the fear for his brother was dying away. But danger still lurked and Orcs still prowled. Orophin should not be here alone, especially with night drawing close.

  


"Orophin!" Haldir tried again, moving higher into the branches. Whenever his brother felt the need for solitude, he sought the very tops of the trees. "Orophin!" Making his way toward the forest canopy, Haldir’s sharp eyes soon found signs that an elf had traveled on these precarious branches. The signs were subtle, to be certain—a bent limb here, a detached leaf there—but Haldir’s instincts were rarely wrong. Orophin had passed this way.

  


Encouraged by this, Haldir began the slow and tedious task of tracking his brother. He was extremely grateful for Orophin’s love of the treetops, for the thin branches, which bent easily underfoot, made him easier to follow. Had it been Rúmil—who seemed to seek water when he needed space to himself—the tracking would have been futile. As it was, trailing Orophin was a difficult but possible endeavor.

  


The sun was partially below the western horizon when Haldir’s sharp ears caught something. At first, he was unsure of what he had heard. Freezing for a moment, he waited in the hopes that he would catch the sound again. And his wait was rewarded as the noise came a second time. It was a soft sigh, barely distinguishable from the evening breeze that now ruffled through the leaves, but it was not part of the wind. The wind spoke of mountains and melting snow. The sigh spoke of mourning and a terrible sorrow.

  


"Orophin?" Haldir called out gently, hoping that his brother would answer him. "Orophin, are you here?"

  


For a moment, all was silent. Even the wind seemed to die away. And then the sigh came a third time, followed by a tentative voice weighted with such grief that Lothlórien’s chief marchwarden wondered how a heart so young could carry so much sadness. "Haldir?"

  


Latching onto the voice and using it to guide his direction, Haldir now hurried through the trees at pace that would have made more prudent minds flinch. Even elves might fear to travel so quickly upon branches so thin, but at the moment, Haldir cared not for such things. His objective was Orophin, and he was now only moments away from reaching his goal.

  


"Haldir, stay! Come no further."

  


Stopping in surprise, Haldir checked himself in exactly the wrong place, and the branch beneath him bent suddenly. Leaping back and giving a startled curse, Haldir dropped into lower parts of the trees were he might safer conduct a conversation. "Orophin, are you—"

  


"Haldir, I know not why you return, but if you come seeking vengeance against innocent blood, I will stop you. It is what Rúmil would have done."

  


The mention of Rúmil’s name stirred the anguish that Haldir had firmly suppressed, but also stirred was his fear for Orophin. His brother still thought him mad with grief and rage, which was quite understandable given the state in which Haldir had left him. Gathering his wits, Haldir cast about for what he might say in the way of an apology, but words seemed to be elusive at the moment. "Orophin…" Haldir grimaced and shook his head, shoving aside his own grief for the moment so that he might better reach his youngest—and only remaining—brother. Eventually deciding to start with rather obvious things, he said, "Orophin, would you show yourself? Please! I have no desire to converse with a voice that has no face."

  


"You have no desire?" A mirthless laugh that held nothing of Orophin’s patient, gentle nature drifted down. "And why should your desires be heeded? You accuse me of tainting our brother and—"

  


"Orophin!" Haldir interrupted, cursing himself for words spoken earlier in anger. "Orophin, I was wrong. You were right. You were more right than you will ever know. I should have followed Rúmil. I should not have let any wander alone with so many Orcs attacking. It was folly on my part! It was _I_ who was tainted! I trusted in the strength of the elves when I should have trusted in the strength of alliance. But the darkness…it clouded my mind. I could not see!" Haldir sighed and rubbed his temples, guilt now coursing through his mind and making it difficult to concentrate. "Orophin, will you not come down? We must speak."

  


There was silence for several endless moments, and then a quiet sob could be heard. Descending slowly, Orophin emerged from his hiding place and pushed through the leaves that had sheltered him. Climbing down until he stood on the same branch as Haldir, he shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. His face was ashen, and he trembled as mortals did when they were cold. Haldir had never before seen his brother look so vulnerable. Feeling his heart break with shame, he quickly moved forward and wrapped Orophin in a fierce and protective embrace.

  


"You were not alone in your folly," Orophin whispered, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning against his brother. "And for that I must apologize. I was also working against alliance and kin. I said words to you, Haldir, that—"

  


"Nay, it is I that must apologize," Haldir interrupted quickly, tightening the embrace and hoping to impart some measure of comfort. "You needed understanding, and instead, I gave you hatred. I drove you away when—"

  


"Hush, Haldir!" Orophin broke in, the pleading in his voice tearing at every fiber of his brother’s soul. "Hush, I must say this. I did not mean to accuse you, and for that I am sorry. Rúmil’s…Rúmil’s passing was no more your fault than it was Gimli’s. I still know not why such a thing has happened, but I must trust that all will work out for the better. Ever have our days here been tinged with sorrow, but out of sorrow can spring joy."

  


"So Rúmil would often say," Haldir murmured. Of all the brothers, Rúmil had been the one to thirst most after vengeance in retaliation for what had happened to their father. His grief had been deepest, and for a time after their father’s death, Haldir had wondered if he might not lose Rúmil to the sea. But Rúmil had eventually overcome his despair, partly thanks to his belief that even as victory was never wholly without sorrow, defeat was never wholly without hope. And ever since, he would often say that joy could spring from sorrow. It had been one of his few philosophical tenets—Rúmil had neither the time nor the desire for the lengthy meditation and introspection that Orophin loved—and he had clung to this tenet as though his entire being depended upon it.

  


"If one follows Rúmil’s belief, then it is logical to conclude that from defeat can spring victory," Orophin continued, his voice quiet but filled with a sudden chill that made Haldir blink.

  


"Defeat has turned to victory in many of the old tales," Haldir said cautiously, stepping back slightly and studying his brother. A sudden change had come over Orophin, and Haldir wondered at it. What had grief done to him?

  


"Does your blood still pound for vengeance, my brother?"

  


"Not against the dwarf, nay," Haldir answered.

  


"And what of the Orcs?" Orophin shrugged off Haldir’s gentle hold and moved away, creating a distance between them. "Do you desire their lives in payment for what has been done?"

  


The fires of rage, carefully hidden beneath a blanket of concern, began to rise, and Haldir hastily thrust them back. Clear thinking were needed now, and it was becoming apparent that Orophin was not going to aid his brother in this. "Of what do you speak?" Haldir asked at length. "This is not like you, and I would know what you intend by this conversation. What do you hope to learn?"

  


"Do you know of King Thranduil’s desire to leave off following the trail and pursue the Orcs to their stronghold by other means?" Orophin asked, returning question for question.

  


"I do," Haldir said warily. "What of it?"

  


"King Thranduil wishes to find the Orcs by splitting the search party into several units and sending them out into likely areas where Orcs might congregate. He no longer wishes to follow the trail they left behind. Why cannot we act on this suggestion?"

  


"Alone?" Haldir asked, frowning.

  


"Two are not as easy to see as ten or twenty. And we are marchwardens, Haldir. Marchwardens of Lothlórien! We can slip past the spies of the enemy and come upon them through routes denied our brethren from Greenwood and Imladris. We can find guarded and hidden entrances that will escape their notice."

  


"And what if we fail?" Haldir challenged, his mind spinning as he tried to keep up with his brother’s unexpected turn in thinking. "What if we give away the elven host?"

  


"They are already revealed," Orophin returned coldly. "Rúmil died in that attack. Or do you not remember?"

  


Whatever had happened to Orophin after Haldir left, it had stripped him of his patience and his common sense. Staring in disbelief, Haldir could only shake his head and wonder at what his younger brother was suggesting. "Orophin, I—"

  


"Enough," Orophin interrupted. "I am going to search for the Orcs who took Rúmil. Whether or not you choose to follow is your decision, but I will not tarry here. Night is coming on, and I now count every second that passes."

  


Slightly stunned and more than a little afraid, Haldir could say nothing for a moment, and then he nodded slowly. "I will follow you, Orophin. We do this together or not at all."

  


A flash of something that reminded Haldir of the old Orophin flared briefly in the other’s face, but then it was gone and the cold creature that had taken his brother’s place returned. Nodding shortly, he turned away. "Come quickly, then," Orophin called over his shoulder. And without waiting for a response, he melted into the trees. Hastening to catch up, Haldir quickly followed. He did not know where they were going, and he did not know why. But one thing he did know, and that was this: The ache of losing Rúmil gnawed unceasingly at his heart; he was not about to lose Orophin, too.

  


* * * *

  


After an hour’s worth of forced convalescence, Elladan felt much better. Considering his previous condition, this was not saying much. The oldest son of Elrond did not feel well in the slightest, nor did he feel capable of entering a battle or sortie of any kind. But he did feel better, so Elladan decided this was reason enough to take on an optimistic outlook. After all, any improvement should be met with joy. The situation was too desperate to disparage even the slightest amount of fortune that attended the weary searchers.

  


He was extremely grateful that Elrohir was not present. His brother would probably strongly disagree with Elladan’s appraisal of the situation. Elrohir was not inclined to favor optimism when another’s health was concerned. Not that Elladan blamed him for this. Had their positions been reversed, Elladan would have forced his twin to take at least several days in which to recover and rest rather than a single hour. But Elladan did not have several days, and fortunately for all involved, Thranduil had realized this. Either that or Thranduil possessed more concern for Legolas than he did for the son of Elrond. Which was understandable. And Thranduil was certainly neither callous nor unfeeling to those who labored with him. The king of Mirkwood had granted Elladan an hour’s reprieve, knowing full well that every passing second was a second in which Legolas and Merry remained in the hands of the enemy. Despite the shortness of the rest, it still remained that Thranduil had been surprisingly generous in even granting one, no matter how brief it had been.

  


But the hour was now spent, and it was time to move to other things. Slowly raising himself up from the wide branch upon which he’d forced himself into sleep, Elladan glanced around for any that might tell him where Thranduil could be found. To his surprise, he found no one in the immediate vicinity.

  


Confused and more than a little unnerved, Elladan blinked and scanned the trees once again. _Ah yes_ , he suddenly remembered. _Thranduil had intended to move the company away from the Orcs so that they would not be easy prey for another attack._ He then frowned slightly and sighed. _He might have told me where they would be moving._

  


"Lord Elladan?"

  


To his credit, Elladan did not jump. He came very close to doing so, but he managed to restrain his surprise and lock it inside, giving no outward reaction. Lifting his head, his eyes narrowed and he eventually spied a Mirkwood archer in the limbs above him. "Well met, friend," he called.

  


The elf nodded his head and then dropped down so that they might more easily converse. "If you feel ready, my lord, then we have been instructed to be your guides and show you where the company now rests."

  
__

We? Elladan once again looked up, and this time he seemed to catch a hint of movement that might indicate the presence of other elves. But even his eyes could not discern their outlines. Mirkwood had survived because of the skills of its warriors, and they were almost unmatched in their ability to blend with their surroundings. "King Thranduil sent you, then?" Elladan asked, eventually giving up his attempts to count how many scouts ranged above him.

  


" _I_ was _sent_ , my lord," the archer answered. "My companions have stayed with you for the duration of your sleep. We did not think it prudent that you rest without guard."

  


"Ah." Elladan frowned slightly, trying to sort through his feelings on this revelation. It was gratifying to know that Thranduil had posted guards on him, but he did not take well to this assumption of authority on the king’s part. Elladan’s safety should have been overseen by warriors from Rivendell, not from Mirkwood. Still, there was nothing to do for it now, and in the long run, it really didn’t matter who did the guarding so long as everything turned out for the best. With a tired sigh, Elladan shook his mind free of petty political thoughts and turned back to the present situation. "Lead on, then, my friend. Doubtless your liege is anxious to continue the search."

  


"As are we, my lord," the other elf said, his voice laced with steel. "Our prince lies within this darkness, and we of Greenwood do not abandon our own."

  


To that there could be no safe response. Elladan had the distinct impression that this elf shared Thranduil’s opinion of delays, and further words would do nothing to improve the dark mood that had suddenly fallen. Returning insult for insult was a waste of time, and beyond that, Elladan didn’t think his mind was clear enough for a prolonged debate with a Silvan elf. Instead, he settled for a cool stare and a mask of elvish inscrutability. At length, the archer with whom he spoke made a motion with his hand, and soft noises came from above as other elves began moving.

  


"This way, my lord," the Mirkwood elf said shortly, turning away and setting out. "It is not far."

  


The ensuing journey was made in a rather tense silence. Once or twice, Elladan wondered if he should ask whether anything had taken place during the time he had rested, but in the end, he decided to keep the silence intact. It helped to order his own thoughts, and he would need them free of any mental cobwebs if he was to convince Thranduil to stay his separation plan for just a little longer. Elrohir, Aragorn, and the rest of the searchers would be joining them in another hour or so. If they could wait only for their arrival, they would be able to organize into larger and safer search teams.

  


After traveling for some time, Elladan’s sharp ears began to catch murmurs of voices around him, and he soon saw a few of the elves from Rivendell as well as some of the Galadhrim and others from Mirkwood. The elf guiding him stopped at one point and spoke quietly, asking after Thranduil’s whereabouts. Then they were moving again, steadily working their way southward until Elladan heard the voice of a dwarf and two hobbits.

  


"My king awaits you just ahead," Elladan’s guide said, stopping and making a rather shallow bow. "By your leave, I must now depart and rejoin my own patrol."

  


Elladan nodded. "My thanks for your guidance," he said, turning his head away and looking south. The other elf left him rather quickly, but Elladan decided to ignore the slight and concentrate on more puzzling things. He could clearly hear the voices of Gimli, Pippin, and Sam. Surely Thranduil was not holding council with them. For most of the search, Thranduil had done his best to stay away from all three, interacting with them only when necessary. Had that now changed? And if so, why?

  


Confused, nervous, and wondering if his knowledge of healing would be required for a certain dwarf in the immediate future, Elladan advanced with absolutely no idea of what to expect. It was an extremely unnerving prospect for the son of Elrond as his instincts usually gave him an indication of what lay around the next corner. Very few things had ever taken him completely by surprise, and even if he did not fully understand a situation, he was usually able to obtain enough of a working knowledge through intuition and perception that explanations came easily.

  


At length, gaps in the branches revealed Pippin, Sam, and Gimli having something that might be called a conversation, for lack of a better word. Pippin and Sam seemed to be doing most of the talking while Gimli was making a valiant attempt at feigning interest, but it was clear that his mind was not upon the subject matter. Above the three were elven archers, all wearing the colors of Mirkwood, and off to one side, partially hidden by the lengthening shadows as the sun dipped toward the horizon, Thranduil stood watching the threesome as they conversed below his position.

  


Elladan had seen many strange things in his lifetime. He had been raised in a home protected by the mightiest of the Elven Rings. He had ridden with the Rangers and acted as an emissary for his father in many realms for many years. He had traveled the lands on both sides of the Misty Mountains extensively. He had stood before the Black Gate of Mordor and witnessed the coming of the eagles even as the might of Sauron was struck down from within. He had walked with the dead and traveled their road behind the man he had come to look upon as a brother. Yet despite all these wonders and all these marvels, Elladan decided that the sight before him now ranked as one of the most unusual. Never did he think to see the day when Thranduil would stand guard with his own personal archers above a dwarf.

  


Sensing his gaze, Thranduil looked up and nodded curtly, his expression suspiciously casual as though this were the most natural thing in the world. "I had wondered if you would need to be roused," the king of Mirkwood said by way of a greeting.

  


"I was not so tired that I could not rouse myself," Elladan answered, feeling a flicker of irritation.

  


"Your appearance did not inspire confidence."

  


Elladan pursed his lips and wondered if that had been meant as an insult or if Thranduil’s customary bluntness was rubbing him the wrong way this evening. Given his current state of mind, the latter was certainly a credible explanation. Deciding that becoming offended required too much effort, Elladan pushed his annoyance aside. "Be that as it may, I am here now," he said. "Has aught happened in my absence?"

  


"Naught of note," Thranduil replied. "As you have no doubt observed, we moved the company further south. I have also sent elves back toward the original trail so that they might meet those coming to find us. We did not leave a path in the trees, for we are too close to the enemy’s base for that."

  


"There are Orcs about, then?" Elladan asked, frowning slightly.

  


"There are Orcs about, but they are not close. Scouts have reported small patrols roaming the forests, but they are not searching for us. Not yet. It is strange," Thranduil said with a shake of his head. "These Orcs do not behave as they have been wont to do in the past. I like I not."

  


The evening was apparently destined for many wonders, as that was the closest Elladan had ever come to hearing Thranduil admit to uncertainty or unease. Nor had the king broached the subject of splitting into smaller search units. It was almost as though he was waiting for something. Perhaps anxiety and fear were breeding caution within Oropher’s usually bold son. If so, it was a singular event, and Elladan was not entirely sure that this was a turn for the better. Caution was good, but the time for caution was dwindling. Even Elladan was feeling a growing need for swift action.

  


Deciding to take the initiative in this matter, Elladan braced himself for an argument and elected for the direct approach. Elrohir always said the direct approach was better anyway. If this didn’t work, he could blame his twin for faulty advice. "Do you still desire to split the company and begin smaller searches?"

  


A thin smile curved Thranduil’s lips and he laughed quietly. "It is unlike you to be impatient, Elladan. That is more your brother’s domain, is it not?"

  


Elladan frowned and his eyes narrowed. "It is unlike you, King Thranduil, to deflect a question. From my observations, you usually answer questions directly. Why this change?"

  


Thranduil studied Elladan for a long moment and then turned his gaze toward the dwarf and the hobbits, who remained ignorant of their conversation. "You know more of our guests than I. How is it that they resist the shadows upon the ground?"

  
__

Wonder upon wonder, Elladan thought, struggling to hide his surprise. _I have lived to see the day when Thranduil asked for information about a dwarf that was not couched in words of derision._ "Perhaps you would know more of this than I," he said in answer to the question. "You seemed to guess something from my report of Lord Celeborn’s warnings. Know you aught else of this darkness? For as you told me, secrets can be dangerous."

  


A warning flash in Thranduil’s eyes told Elladan that secrets were not the only dangerous things about, but the son of Elrond was brimming with curiosity and would not be dissuaded. Thranduil seemed possessed of strange thoughts this evening, and Elladan longed to know what had happened to begin this unusual course. Never before had he seen the king of Mirkwood so reflective.

  


"I cannot speak for Celeborn in this," Thranduil said at length. "His suspicions are his own. As for this darkness…" Thranduil turned his gaze downward and was silent for a moment. "It is an agent of seduction," he eventually said. "It seeks out desires and twists them. Weaknesses, also, become its prey. A small chink in the armor of the mind is all that is necessary." The king of Mirkwood looked up again, his gray eyes fastening themselves on Elladan. "But you were the one following the trail hidden by these shadows. Surely you should be sharing this information with me."

  


"What need is there to share when we both understand what we face?" Elladan asked. "And as for your earlier question, hobbits are strangely resilient. Bilbo kept the One Ring for years with no hint of evil or turning until the end. Frodo carried it into the poisoned wastelands of Mordor itself where its power reached its highest potency."

  


"And the dwarf?" Thranduil prompted, his eyes narrowing.

  


"Single-mindedness is the only explanation I can offer," Elladan said with a slight shrug. "He is completely bent on finding your son. There is no room for anything else. And from what I have observed, the darkness has not left him entirely unscathed. His impatience has become more pronounced, and he has little tolerance for any who do not keep up with him."

  


Thranduil frowned and shook his head, his gaze turning back to the ground. "The darkness has become very quiet," he murmured after a while. "I do not like this change. I fear what it may forebode. We should delay our search until we are joined by reinforcements. At that point, we should turn directly south as you and the dwarf have advised."

  


Elladan felt that surprise and shock could go no further. He had never met Oropher—the late king of Mirkwood having died over a century before the twins’ birth—but he had heard many tales and had been assured that Thranduil had inherited many of his father’s traits. Impatience was one of them. Intolerance was another. If a blow was to be struck, then Thranduil was among the first to strike. If any advised otherwise, diplomacy was among the last recourses for use. But now Thranduil was counseling delay as well as hearkening to the advice of a younger being and a dwarf. _Perhaps I did not receive enough rest_ , Elladan thought. _It appears that I am becoming delusional._

  


His confusion apparently showed upon his face, for Thranduil’s eyes twinkled and he offered a slight smile. "Peace, son of Elrond," he said. "I am not as fool-hardy as some of the Wise may have led you to believe. My fear for my son burns brightly, but I will not turn our search into a vain endeavor. Too often have we underestimated the enemy in the past. We will not do so now."

  


Elladan shook his head, still wheeling in disbelief, and sighed. "I fear that apologies are in order, then," he said.

  


"Perhaps, but then again, perhaps not," Thranduil answered. "Had the darkness remained as it was and had I not witnessed its effects on Haldir, my counsel would now be different."

  


"What of Haldir?" Elladan asked, his brow furrowing.

  


"Rúmil was killed in the attack, and Haldir did not take it well, blaming it upon the dwarf. He sought vengeance," Thranduil said quietly, watching Elladan closely as though to gauge his reaction to this news. "I sent him back to Rivendell with his other brother as a precaution."

  


"Elbereth," Elladan groaned. "Haldir is too high in authority among the Galadhrim for this. Where he leads, many follow."

  


"Few were following him when he made known his thoughts to me, if that comforts you," Thranduil offered. "And given his state of mind, I doubt that he could create convincing arguments for attacking the dwarf. You have little to fear from him."

  


"That is well," Elladan murmured. "And now that our role is reduced to one of waiting, I think I shall seek out my own scouts. Do you wish to relinquish the task of guarding those upon the ground?"

  


"My guards are already in place," Thranduil answered, doing his utmost best to sound as though it did not matter to him. "To change now would be a waste of resources."

  


"I see," Elladan said slowly, deciding that he was indeed becoming delusional. "Then I bid you farewell for the present. I will look for you when our friends arrive from Rivendell."

  


"Until then," Thranduil answered, turning his gaze back to the hobbits and the dwarf upon the ground.

  
__

Perhaps I am not the only delusional one, Elladan mused as he left to find his own forces.

  


* * * *

  


His first sensation in returning to the conscious world was of a searing pain that attacked his mouth and throat. His next sensation was nausea. His stomach felt as though he had just taken a trip down the Brandywine River in a barrel during the early spring when it flooded its banks. Beyond that, a sickening stench was now assailing his sense of smell. His first instinct was to recoil sharply, but he was strangely devoid of energy. He could not seem to move. Coherent thought, also, was a struggle, and he felt as though his mind labored upward with a dragging weight that sapped his strength and took the very idea of exhaustion to new heights.

  


Swallowing painfully and licking his lips to moisten them, Meriadoc Brandybuck whimpered as this slight movement sent waves of pain surging through his head. His gut clenched and rolled within him like a thing possessed. Vivid images flashed through his mind in a whirling kaleidoscope of colors and impressions. The pictures shown within these images were familiar, but they flew by too quickly for the hobbit to recognize them. Yet he knew he had seen this before. He could not say where and he could not say when, but there was a horrifying familiarity about everything he witnessed that frightened Merry.

  


With a choking groan that turned into a broken sob, Merry struggled to open his eyes, desperate to find a measure of sanity in his tortured world. The images continued to flash before his thoughts, and along with them now came a soft voice. It was a voice that had spoken before, but it had been distant and muffled then. It had been recognized as an outside influence and dismissed, or so the hobbit believed. But now it was different and could not so easily be ignored. It had become clear and commanding, almost as though it was an extension of Merry’s will. Yet at one point, he was sure that this had been a foreign voice. An intruding presence. Hadn’t it?

  


Confused and feeling as though answers were becoming even more elusive, Merry called upon a sudden well of hidden strength and willed his stubborn eyes open. The first sight to greet him was a pool of black sludge that had collected beneath his mouth. He could taste the remnants of it upon his lips, and he realized with a shock that he had expelled this sluggish liquid from his stomach. But he could not remember drinking it. And yet…

  


More images began to assail him, and Merry turned his head to the side in lieu of shaking it. He hoped that a sight other than the stinking slime would ground him, but he quickly discovered that he could not be more wrong.

  


His eyes came to rest upon Legolas, who lay unmoving beside him. For a brief second, the elf appeared to sleep. Yet his sleep was anything but peaceful, and it seemed from his restless movements that he struggled with fell dreams. And then something within the hobbit’s mind…shifted. It was as though a cold fist seized his mind and turned it, forcing him to see a different image. Before his eyes, Legolas changed. His skin became ashen, and his face twisted with terrible agony. His eyes blinked open wearily, and he looked to Merry, his lips parting slightly as though he sought to speak. But before he could say aught, a tremor of pain ripped through his body and his head jerked back as he cried out. The elven voice that had blessed the Fellowship with song and comfort during the lonely hours of the evening was twisted into a croaking scream that sounded more akin to the grunts of the Orcs than to the fair notes of the Eldar.

  


"Legolas!" Merry cried out, wishing for the strength to steady his friend but lacking even the energy to raise his head away from the foul stink that had collected beneath him.

  
__

You failed him! Help might have arrived had you possessed the courage to find assistance!

  


Merry froze, remembering the incident in the tunnels. Legolas had begged him to leave and escape. But he had refused to leave the elf’s side. Had he truly brought Legolas to this point? Was he responsible?

  


The elf’s head slumped forward, and he coughed violently as shudders wracked his body. Blood now speckled his tunic, and more edged the corners of his mouth. His gray eyes, dark with pain and torment, locked onto the hobbit, and a flash of anger surged in their lifeless depths.

  


"Legolas, I didn’t know!" Merry cried, wincing as another round of convulsions shook his friend. "I didn’t want to leave you here."

  
__

You betrayed him! He dies because of you.

  


"No!" Merry screamed, squeezing his eyes shut. But the voice, louder than ever, could not be silenced. It had become a part of his being, and the words it spoke wound their way around the hobbit’s soul, tightening the grip of darkness that had crept over his mind.

  


"Merry?"

  


The hobbit’s name, gasped as though wrung from the breath of the dying, arrested Merry’s attention as nothing else in Arda might have. His eyes snapped open and he turned to Legolas, suddenly finding the strength to rise. Pushing himself off the floor, he tentatively moved toward his cellmate. "Legolas, I’m sorry," he whispered, tears filling his eyes. He reached out to place a hand upon the elf’s shoulder, but Legolas recoiled sharply, hissing in pain at the slight touch. "What has happened?" Merry cried. "What have they done?"

  


"Poison," Legolas murmured as the convulsions began anew.

  


"Poison?" Merry echoed, his horror growing exponentially. "But why? Why would they do this?"

  


"Only needed one prisoner," the elf murmured breathlessly. "Too hard to control me. Had you left…had you left then I—" Legolas’s words were broken off as he arched under another wave of pain and torment. The grinding sound of his teeth as his jaw clamped shut sent Merry’s rapidly fraying sanity teetering to the brink of a dark abyss.

  


"Had I left, they would have needed you," Merry finished, tears now falling freely. "They wouldn’t have done this. Legolas, I—"

  


"End it."

  


The hobbit blinked, his mind arrested in mid-thought. "What?"

  


"End it. Kill me."

  


Everything went horribly and dreadfully silent. Merry’s world shattered as he stared at the form of the broken elf. It was as though he saw Legolas through the fractured shards of crystal while all of reality twisted into a distorted nightmare. "No," he whispered, backing away. "No, I can’t."

  


"As my friend, I ask you to—"

  


"Legolas, please! Please, you don’t know what you’re saying! There has to be another way! There must be—"

  


"No cure."

  


"Legolas—"

  


"Help me, Merry. Help me. Free me."

  


And in that moment, the images that had been parading through the hobbit’s mind at speeds too fast to comprehend suddenly revealed themselves in shocking and horrifying clarity. He saw Legolas beaten. Broken. Crippled for life. Forced to endure the ravages of a poison that worked slowly and painfully. And in all these images, he saw Legolas pleading for it to end. He saw him begging for his misery to be stopped by the hand of a trusted friend. But each time the elf pleaded for mercy, Merry refused. And so Legolas grew steadily worse until even his restless sleep was interrupted by screams of pain.

  
__

It was you who prolonged his misery! You brought it upon him, and then you let him wallow in it. He has no escape save through you, but you lack the courage to help him!

  


"I can’t, Legolas," Merry whispered, feeling as though his spirit was rent in twain. "I—"

  


"Please…"

  


The whispered plea tore through Merry’s mind, and as he hesitated with indecision, Legolas cried out again, his arms encircling his chest and blood spilling from his mouth. His lungs heaved and his breath rasped while tremors worked their way up and down his prone form. Merry started forward as though to offer comfort, but as before, when his hand touched Legolas’s shoulder, the elf stiffened in sudden pain. But this time, the pain did not end with the elf flinching away. Instead, Merry’s hand touched off a chain reaction that escalated into violent convulsions, eventually topped by a shrill cry that was somewhere between a scream and a roar. The power of this cry slammed into Merry with all the force of a Balrog’s whip, and he found himself gasping for breath while his vision darkened. It was too much for the hobbit, and as the world spiraled into chaos, he could endure no more. He dared not think about what his next actions would bring, but he knew that he could not hear such a noise again. Not from Legolas. It would destroy him.

  


"How?" Merry asked, feeling something crack deep within his soul as he uttered the single word.

  


"Left gauntlet. Knife," Legolas murmured, his eyes shutting tightly as his head jerked back against the onslaught of additional pain.

  


Merry moved as though numb. The shadows of his mind were too heavy now to fully understand what he was doing. He only knew that he was answering the dying wishes of a friend who deserved better than this. He deserved to live, but Merry had already denied him that. This was the only way to make recompense. This was the only way to make things right. Yet at the same time, this was all so very wrong…

  


Choking back the gasping sobs that were making him short of breath, Merry unlaced Legolas’s left gauntlet and found a small dagger hidden underneath the tough leather. Had the hobbit been in his right mind, he would have immediately questioned how such a thing had come to be there. Surely the Orcs would have found it and removed it. Even had they not, Legolas would have used it before now. But Merry was not in his right mind, and such considerations did not occur to him. He was currently so far removed from himself that it was a wonder he entertained any thoughts at all.

  


Picking the knife up, the small blade gleamed a dull red in the torchlight, and Merry looked away, unable to bare its sight. "Legolas, I—"

  


"Give it to me," the elf rasped, turning his head as another round of coughs shook him.

  


Merry slowly extended the weapon, and Legolas’s trembling hands reached up to take it. But he lacked the strength to hold it and he sobbed with despair, his pale hand lying atop Merry’s shaking wrists. The sob quickly turned into a choking gasp as blood welled up from his lungs, and Legolas closed his eyes as yet another scream was torn from him. And as this second terrible cry rent the air, the shadows within the hobbit gained enough of a hold to command his actions.

  


His mind spinning in horror at Legolas’s torment, Merry’s body moved against his will. Seizing the elf’s shoulder with one hand, he surged forward and plunged the knife deep into quivering flesh. He felt the movement of elven muscles shake the haft of the dagger, and then he felt the motion of the heart ripple through to his fingers as the blade sank to the hilt.

  


The scream abruptly stopped and Legolas’s eyes flew open in shock. His mouth moved as though to speak, but no words came forth. Time slowed to a crawl, and then the elf went limp. All motion ceased and his vacant eyes darkened as the light of life fled. Warm blood spilled onto Merry’s hands and the hobbit leaped back, his movements jerky and uncontrolled.

  
__

Traitor.

  


"Legolas!" Merry screamed.

  
__

Betrayer.

  


"No!" the hobbit cried out as darkness overwhelmed him, blotting out hope and memory as its control became complete.

  
__

Murderer.

 

  


 


	24. Answers and Tempers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

Celeborn had hunted with many warriors and fought in many armies during the course of his long and periodically tumultuous life. But as he surveyed those who now journeyed beside him, he decided that he had never before traveled with a group quite like this. Upon the ground, wading through a suspiciously calm sea of shadows, walked the men of Gondor. Above them were elves of both Rivendell and Lothlórien. Even more elves traveled parallel to the group, spread far and wide in an effort to locate Haldir, who had not been seen since Ithildae had escorted him to his room. And as for Ithildae himself, the archer had taken the few Mirkwood elves in the group and departed in order to conduct his own search for the missing marchwarden. Celeborn had not heard from them since, which came as no surprise, but it would have been nice to know that his kindred from the north were still safe. All in all, it was a very disparate, very divided, very wary, and very weary group.

  
__

Some of us should not even be able to stand upright, much less go forth to battle, Celeborn mused grimly, his eyes straying to Aragorn. Elrohir was upon the ground with his foster brother and was doing his best to aid him, but it was clear to all who knew the man well that the king was faltering. He was simply not ready to return to this hunt. He needed more rest. _Alas, there is no time for rest_ , Celeborn sighed. _Not for us and especially not for those we seek to rescue. Time is nearly spent if it is not spent already._

  


The woods were growing dark as the last of the sun’s light disappeared behind the western horizon. The lengthening shadows mirrored the doubts and uncertainties growing in Celeborn’s heart, and he shook his head, one hand tightening around the sword he had girded about his waist. Lothlórien’s lord had a fairly good idea of what to expect should they ever succeed in freeing Legolas and Merry, and thanks to Rose Cotton Gamgee, he also had an inkling of how to help the prisoners recover from this experience. But he could not be sure of himself. He had never witnessed this first-hand. He had Elrond’s account of what Elendil had revealed, and even that was based on a great deal of conjecture and assumption. Still, what else could be done at this point? No other explanation fit the situation as closely as did his current theory. And until he could find a better, he would stand by his thoughts and suppositions, uncertain though they might be.

  


"My lord!"

  


Celeborn stopped and looked up as one of the Galadhrim scouts leaped down before him, landing neatly on a narrow branch and executing a quick bow. "Report," Celeborn ordered quietly.

  


"We have found no sign of Haldir or Orophin, my lord," the elf answered, his voice filled with frustration and concern. "Both have hidden their tracks well. We can only say with certainty that Haldir left Rivendell and journeyed south. Any more than that is speculation."

  


Celeborn cursed quietly. Haldir was an unexpected problem, and one that they could not afford to deal with at the moment. There were too many other things to consider, but Haldir could well prove to be a wild arrow, shot in the dark with no thought for aim. Who knew what he might hit were he not stopped in time? If his desire for vengeance led him to Gimli and a fight ensued, the consequences were grave. They were divided enough already. They did not need cause for further separation. "Continue the search," Celeborn instructed. "Haldir is to be taken to Rivendell the moment he is found." He paused, thinking about his next words, and then sighed. "Take him unharmed if possible, but if you must subdue him in order to take him, you have my leave to use force."

  


A wide range of emotions flickered across the scout’s face, but he bowed quickly and nodded. "As you say, my lord. I shall pass these commands to the other scouts." And then the elf left, disappearing into the darkening forest as quickly and quietly as he had come.

  


"Think you that such an order was prudent?" questioned a voice from below.

  


"Would you rather invite further sundering between elves and dwarves?" Celeborn returned, glancing down at his grandson. "Unity is crucial. We cannot afford to be further sundered. To this end, the use of force against an errant marchwarden seems a small price to pay."

  


"Gimli should be safe enough," Aragorn reasoned, his weary voice joining the conversation. "Ere we left them this morning, Elladan assured me that he would see to Gimli’s well being. At the time, we were most concerned with King Thranduil’s actions, yet the promise holds, regardless of the threat."

  


"But Elladan knows where Thranduil is," Celeborn answered. "He does not know where Haldir is, and he does not know that Haldir might be a danger. It is difficult to guard against an unexpected attack from an unexpected source."

  


"Elladan might be unaware of this peril, but Thranduil is not," Aragorn said. "If Haldir does return to the searchers, there are a few that will know of his true designs. It would not be completely unexpected."

  


"Even so, let us hope that we find Haldir ere anyone else does," Celeborn sighed. "And Orophin, as well. I fear to speculate as to his current state of mind, but if it is anything like his brother’s, then there is cause for fear."

  


"Arwen was dispatching many scouts as we left," Elrohir said. "Perhaps they shall find the missing brothers."

  


"Believe you that they shall have more luck than we?" Celeborn challenged. "Your Rivendell searchers are looking for experienced Galadhrim marchwardens in a dark forest. What hope of success have they?"

  


"Though our ways are different, my people are skilled in tracking," Elrohir said sharply.

  


"I intended no disrespect, Elrohir," Celeborn said, startled by this sudden indignation. "But it is no secret that even my own people have difficulty tracking one another in the woods. Your scouts are unused to our ways and our paths. They have a severe disadvantage."

  


Elrohir was quiet for a moment and then he sighed. "My apologies, Lord Celeborn. And you are right. Finding Haldir and Orophin will be a difficult task, if not an impossible one."

  


"There is always hope," Aragorn murmured quietly, but his voice indicated he did not quite believe himself.

  


After these words, they continued on in brooding silence, each lost in his own dark thoughts. For Celeborn, dark thoughts included several different venues of mental tracks. And while he was certainly not unaccustomed to multiple evils—life with Dol Guldur just across the Anduin had a tendency to give one experience in these matters—he was not accustomed to having evil strike the very heart of his forces. Haldir was a trusted and ranking marchwarden. He was a gifted warrior with the patience to wait out the enemy and the boldness to strike when a strike was needed. Orophin, also, was an extremely talented scout with an uncanny ability for finding and examining each and every clue or fragment left behind by his opponents. But now Haldir seemed to have turned against them all, and Orophin was still missing. When this problem was added to the uncertainty that Celeborn already felt regarding Legolas and Merry, it was easy to see why the lord of Lothlórien was troubled.

  


But just as experience had gifted Celeborn with many opportunities for fear and doubt, experience had also blessed him with the means to handle such situations. He could do nothing about Haldir and Orophin until one or both were found. Worrying about them did not help his scouts in the search, and so he pushed the matter to the back of his mind. The issue of freeing Legolas and Merry was also something he could not directly control at the moment. The layout of the enemy’s forces and the design of their stronghold would determine the method of their release. Thus, Celeborn pushed it to the back of his mind as well. However, he could not ignore the nagging doubts surrounding what to do with Legolas and Merry once they were liberated. That was something over which he had quite a bit of control, and it was also the area about which he had his greatest doubts. There were only two documented cases of men treated for the conditioning that he suspected Merry and Legolas had endured. One of those had been reasonably successful, and the other had ended in suicide. There did not seem to be any accounts of an elf being treated, and there were certainly no records for hobbits, which meant that Celeborn was essentially stumbling around in the dark in his attempt to formulate a method for healing the prisoners.

  


Slight movement ahead of their position suddenly arrested Celeborn’s attention, and he frowned, stopping so as to better examine his surroundings. After a moment or two, he smiled slightly and nodded. "Hail, warriors of Greenwood," he called.

  


Moving with complete silence, an elf clad in the green and brown colors of Thranduil’s realm stepped forward, separating himself from the growing darkness of the night. Sketching a quick bow, he straightened and spoke. "Lord Celeborn, Lord Elrohir, and King Elessar, by your leave I have been sent to guide you to the others. We moved further south several hours ago and left no trail so that our movements might go unnoticed."

  


"Our thanks," Elrohir said. "How many of you have been sent as escort?"

  


"Ten, my lord," the elf answered quickly. "Shall we lead the way?"

  


"I fear that not all of us are able to come at this time," Celeborn said. "We have scouting units spread abroad. They must be brought back so that they may follow, for they do not know where to go after this point."

  


"Then, my lords, I shall divide my company. Those wishing to wait for the scouts may tarry here. Others we shall lead forward, for my liege bids you make all possible speed."

  
__

I am certain that he does, Celeborn sighed. This search had dragged on long enough to severely try Thranduil’s limited patience, and the lord of Lothlórien was slightly surprised that his kinsman from Mirkwood had not already struck out on his own. "It is well," Celeborn answered aloud. "We shall leave captains here while the rest follow so that counsel may be taken." He sent a glance downward to Aragorn and Elrohir, clearly indicating that he wished them to be in the group that would follow.

  


"A moment, ere we begin," Elrohir interrupted. "Have any come before us from Rivendell? Perhaps some of the Galadhrim?"

  


The elf from Greenwood frowned. "We have seen none, my lord, save your own scouts, and those we saw were of Imladris. Have any gone astray?"

  


"We shall know soon enough," Celeborn said quietly. "Come. The night draws on and there is much to be done. Elrohir, choose some from among your own scouts to remain. The rest of us shall follow as quickly as we are able."

  


Arrangements were made swiftly, and then those not waiting for the search parties to return hurried after the elves from Greenwood. Their direction was almost due south, and it veered sharply away from the path they had been following earlier. The snatches of ground that Celeborn could see beneath the shifting mists showed that this area was rocky, possibly allowing for the existence of caves. Having lived the early years of his life in Menegroth, Celeborn was fairly knowledgeable about caverns and what was needed for the existence of underground chambers. They were now entering lands that could easily hold vast networks of tunnels, and such a place would be to the liking of Orcs as well as the dark master that they served. Thranduil and the other elves old enough to remember Doriath would know this as well, and doubtless Gimli could also sense the changing of the land. It would make their desire for haste even greater, and Celeborn wondered if he would be able to hold them back long enough to explain what he knew of the situation and the danger they faced. Time was crucial, but so was knowledge. And they needed to be informed.

  


Minutes dragged on, and Celeborn began to wonder just how far away from the trail the group had strayed. They had found country capable of supporting caves, but were they now too far from the trail to make an educated guess as to where the opening for an Orc stronghold might be? With a frustrated shake of his head, Celeborn cursed quietly and debated about throttling his kinsman. This was undoubtedly Thranduil’s doing. Move as close to the goal as possible to avoid detection, change direction, circle around, come in from behind, and hope that the goal hadn’t moved in the meantime. Those were Thranduil’s patented offensive tactics. To his credit, they had been reasonably successful in defending Mirkwood. Outnumbered and shorn of the protection that had defended Rivendell and Lothlórien, this strategy had been Thranduil’s only real option for keeping a dwindling military alive and fit enough to repel the continual attacks launched at his realm. But there were times when these tactics failed, and Celeborn wondered if this might not prove to be another example of that. They had a clear trail to follow, but Thranduil had moved them away from it in an effort to escape patrols. Prudence was well and good, but it may have been taken too far.

  


Eventually, Celeborn began to hear soft whispers in the trees around him and to catch glimpses of other elves. Murmurs from Aragorn’s men indicated that they also sensed the change, and the guides from Greenwood stopped, turning to face Celeborn, Elrohir, and Aragorn.

  


"My lords, we have arrived. My own liege bids you meet with him and also with Lord Elladan. If you will come, my companions shall see that those forces upon the ground are protected by our archers."

  


"I thank you for the offer, but know that my men are quite capable of seeing to their own safety," Aragorn answered coolly, his dark gray eyes coming to rest upon the Mirkwood elf and challenging him to deny the fact that his words had been a slight.

  


"It has been our experience that those confined to the ground do not fare as well as those with freedom to move about in the trees, my lord," the elf answered, his eyes hardening.

  


Deciding that this could go on all night, Celeborn dropped to the ground beside the king of Gondor and laid a hand to the man’s shoulder. "Lead us to King Thranduil," he ordered the scout while sending a stern look in the direction of both Aragorn and Elrohir. "We have tarried here long enough."

  


An awkward pause filled the forest, and then the elf nodded curtly. "This way, my lords," he murmured, turning and moving off. After indicating to his forces that they should remain where they were, Celeborn followed.

  


"What cause had you to interfere?" Aragorn hissed angrily. "My honor—"

  


"Your honor had naught to do with what was said," Celeborn shot back, calling to mind Elrohir’s earlier indignation. "It is this darkness that causes such misunderstandings, and it is affecting us all. Our perceptions are twisting to fuel our misgivings and our anger. Watch your tongues and your tempers, both of you. Because you have spent so much time in it, this shadow has a greater hold on your minds."

  


"I must agree with Estel, Lord Celeborn," Elrohir said, his voice sharp. "That elf had no right to—"

  


"Have you listened to nothing I have said?" Celeborn demanded. "Your minds and your hearts are being turned against your allies. That elf is no less affected than you. Pay it no heed! Now come. I have much to explain to all of you ere we take the next step."

  


Saying this, Celeborn strode ahead of the younger beings, praying to any Vala listening that they would cease their talk and follow silently. He could feel his patience slipping, and the darkness through which he waded did not help. It was still and dormant, but it was yet a shadow on his thoughts and a disturbance. He could only imagine what it had been like to repel it repeatedly as Elladan and Aragorn had done. It was no wonder the king of Gondor had returned to Imladris looking as though he just had walked out of a Barrow.

  


After a few minutes of walking—in which Elrohir and Aragorn were blissfully quiet, though Celeborn could feel the weight of their combined glares upon his back—they arrived at a small clearing and found two hobbits, a dwarf, and the eldest of Elrond’s twin sons.

  


"Lord Celeborn!" Elladan exclaimed, straightening immediately and pushing off of the tree against which he had been leaning. "I had not expected you to come."

  


"Nor I," a voice called as Thranduil dropped out of the trees, landing so close to Celeborn that the lord of Lothlórien almost flinched. "Your presence is unlooked for," Thranduil continued, pinning his kinsman with a shrewd glance that carried traces of a veiled warning. "I trust that this heralds news of some import."

  


"Your senses are as sharp as ever," Celeborn answered, wondering if his temper was up to surviving an encounter with Thranduil.

  


"Aragorn, do you feel well enough to be here?" a dwarven voice asked.

  


"I might ask the same of you," Aragorn replied sharply. "Your face betrays grief, Gimli. Have you a firm handle on your emotions?"

  


Things were definitely not off to a good start, and questioning the fitness of others was going to lead them nowhere. Celeborn had serious doubts about both Aragorn and Gimli. Moreover, he was not exactly confident that Thranduil and Elladan were nearly as hale as they were pretending to be. But when working with a group of minds as stubborn as these, Celeborn knew where to push and where to let well enough alone. It had been something he had learned from his years of working with the White Council, and it served him now as they huddled together in the mists of shadows. "Peace, all of you," he said, inserting enough authority into his voice to ensure that they listened but speaking quietly enough to escape the possibility of causing offense. "Thranduil, before anything else is said, I must ask if you have heard any tidings of Haldir or Orophin."

  


Thranduil’s only indication of surprise was an elegantly arching eyebrow, something that immediately reminded Celeborn of Oropher. _And of Legolas as well, now that I think of it._ "After sending him to Rivendell, I heard no more of him," the king answered, gray eyes narrowing slightly. "What prompts your question?"

  


Celeborn risked a quick glance at Gimli, noting with a flicker of amusement that Sam and Pippin were flanking the dwarf as though preparing to support him in the event of an attack. "He came to Rivendell, but he did not stay there. And he still does not accept that Rúmil’s death was the fault of the Orcs."

  


"You allowed him to leave Rivendell?" Thranduil asked, his voice carrying an undertone of complete disbelief.

  


"We _allowed_ him to leave in much the same way that you _allowed_ Sméagol to leave your care in Mirkwood," Celeborn found himself answering before he could stop his tongue.

  


Thranduil froze, and for one interminable moment, all of Arda seemed to hold its breath. Thousands of years ago, Celeborn had once watched Oropher give a similar reaction to the news that the dwarves had murdered Thingol. After the pause had come an explosion of temper the likes of which could easily put to shame the greatest eruptions of Orodruin. Celeborn briefly wondered if he would even be given enough time to blink when Thranduil attacked.

  


Fortunately, no attack took place because Elrohir chose that moment to step between the two older elves. It was certainly not the wisest thing he had ever done, but it was probably one of the bravest and Celeborn made a mental note to both compliment and reprimand his grandson about it later. "My lord, what was Haldir’s state of mind when you decided to send him back to Rivendell?" Elrohir asked, his eyes hard but his voice respectful. "Would he truly have acted on his desires for vengeance?"

  


Thranduil’s eyes reminded Celeborn of a black storm he had once seen building upon the sea, and he discovered that his hand was curling around the hilt of his sword. Forcing himself to release the blade, the lord of Lothlórien reached out and pulled Elrohir back, stepping forward as he did so and taking the full brunt of Thranduil’s dark glare. For a moment they were locked thus, and though he had spent many years at Galadriel’s side while she used Nenya to hold the forces of Dol Guldur at bay, Celeborn found himself slightly amazed at the power that Thranduil seemed to project. It was a power completely devoid of Nenya’s finesse and lacking Galadriel’s touch of elegance, but it was a potent power nonetheless that seemed rooted in the earth itself and buttressed by the strength of the mountains. This power crashed into Celeborn, and though he did not shrink from it, the lord of Lothlórien did marvel at what his younger kinsman had developed over the long years of defending northern Mirkwood. But his admiration was short-lived, for time pressed upon them and confrontations such as these could not be tolerated. Moreover, Celeborn was not without power himself. Withstanding Thranduil’s silent attack, he loosed his own anger at the elven king, holding back slightly but making it clear that his authority was not to be contested. After a moment, Thranduil blinked, shook his head, and then stepped back. Whatever force he had been employing abruptly vanished, and Celeborn nearly stumbled forward, so intent was he on their silent battle. He managed to keep his balance, but the disorientation was great and the shadows about his feet seemed to be surging and roiling as though disturbed.

  


"My lords?"

  


Elladan’s tentative voice broke through the silence, and though Elrond’s oldest son had whispered, his words were amplified by the tension that had descended. Still attempting to recover, Celeborn watched in confusion as Thranduil took a deep breath and then stepped back yet again. The movement was almost akin to a retreat, and Celeborn found himself reeling in shock.

  


"King Thranduil, are you—"

  


Thranduil shook his head sharply, his eyes seeking out Elrohir and silencing the question before it could be finished. "You asked concerning Haldir’s state of mind?" Elrohir nodded silently, apparently not trusting his voice. "I cannot speak for him at the present time," Thranduil continued, "but when last we parted, he was not well. Had I not stopped him, then Haldir would have killed the dwarf."

  


There were a number of reactions to this announcement, and Celeborn felt his head spinning as he attempted to analyze each one. It did not help that he was still dazed by Thranduil’s apparent retreat. But one thing was certain and that was this: Gimli, Pippin, and Sam had not been told that Haldir blamed Gimli for Rúmil’s death. Nor had they been told that the marchwarden was looking to avenge his fallen brother. _Trust Oropher’s son to completely abandon tact when announcing such a thing_ , Celeborn sighed wearily.

  


"What’s this about killing Gimli?" Pippin was demanding angrily while the dwarf in question stared at Thranduil in shock.

  


Watching the king of Mirkwood with a mixture of caution and concern, Celeborn glanced in the hobbit’s direction. "Haldir was not entirely satisfied that Gimli did all that could be done to prevent Rúmil’s death," he answered. "He has placed some of the blame upon Gimli and seeks vengeance."

  


"But Gimli didn’t kill Rúmil!" Sam protested, looking rather unsure of himself but speaking up despite his fears. "He told us himself what happened, and there wasn’t anything that could be done about it! Surely you can’t believe that—"

  


"We do not hold Gimli suspect in this matter, Samwise Gamgee, but neither did we lose a brother this day as Haldir did," Celeborn replied, still flicking uncertain glances back at Thranduil. "Grief is an irrational thing at times."

  


"He blames me for Rúmil’s death?" Gimli whispered, seeming to speak to himself.

  


"What can we do?" Sam asked.

  


"Naught but remain vigilant," Aragorn spoke up, and Celeborn noted that the king of Gondor was also watching Thranduil sharply. It seemed that the lord of Lothlórien was not alone in his confusion over Thranduil’s strange behavior. "We have teams searching for Haldir, but finding him is another matter entirely."

  


"Orophin is also missing," Elrohir added with a grimace, "and we must search for him as well. None seem to know his state of mind."

  


"Can you keep nothing secure in Imladris?" Thranduil demanded, his disconcerting reticence shattering at this last bit of news.

  


"Orophin never reached Imladris," Celeborn replied, wondering what was going through his kinsman’s mind. _He retreats and now he advances again. By all the stars in the heavens, Thranduil, what has this shadow done to you?_

  


"A fine state of affairs this is," Thranduil said, his eyes darkening. "One of your marchwardens left Imladris against your orders, and the other never arrived. Do I have this aright, Lord Celeborn?"

  


Feeling his temper rise again, Celeborn bristled and turned a cold look upon the king of Mirkwood. "Was it not you who sent the wounded back and appointed your own elves over that party? And were they not responsible for those within the party?"

  


"The two missing elves are of the Galadhrim," Thranduil snapped. "If any here are responsible for their actions, I say it is the one to whom they owe allegiance."

  


"If I may intrude, my lords, this discussion serves no purpose," Elladan spoke up. He received twin glares for his interruption, but he would not be dissuaded and continued, his voice carrying an undertone of frustration. "Unless something must needs be said now, I counsel that we separate our companies and begin searching south for evidence of an Orc stronghold. Time passes, and we have now enough numbers to safely form groups."

  


And as before, Celeborn was suddenly aware that there was a disturbance in the shadows about his feet. Slowly shaking his head, he turned his eyes back on Thranduil and discovered that the king of Mirkwood was now looking at the dwarf. As if sensing Celeborn’s gaze, Thranduil turned away quickly and focused his attention back on his kinsman. "We separate, then," he announced quietly. "But we stay in large groups. None are to be alone."

  


"Good," Elladan sighed. "But ere we divide our forces, I would ask if any present have somewhat that should be shared with others ere we depart." The lord of Imladris trailed off and sent Celeborn a look that was eerily similar to some of Elrond’s more formidable expressions.

  


"You wish to know of my suspicions," Celeborn surmised.

  


"We are sadly lacking in information," Elladan answered. "Moreover, I cannot see a reason for your presence here if it is not to inform us of what we face."

  


"You doubt my skill on the battlefield?" Celeborn asked, his tone becoming cold.

  


"Nay, but if your skill on the battlefield was all that was needed, you would have been here earlier," Aragorn said, cutting in on Elladan’s behalf. "It is your wisdom we seek now, and since you have abandoned the manuscripts in the library, we trust you have discovered something. You said as much to Elladan early this morning, did you not?"

  


"I did," Celeborn admitted, taking a breath and attempting to rein in his temper. _Sweet Elbereth, Thranduil has a greater understanding of this darkness than I. Perhaps he should be the one to answer these questions, for unless my aim is far astray, he has seen something very similar in Mirkwood._ To this end, Celeborn turned his eyes upon the elven king and waited until Thranduil returned the look. "You recognized the hints in my words?" he asked.

  


Thranduil’s jaw tightened marginally and he nodded. "I believe so, yes. If I read your hints aright, you reference an interesting tale concerning Amandil, Ar-Pharazôn, and Sauron as it was related to Elrond by Elendil. I did not give this story much credence when first I heard it, for men are fickle and need little outside persuasion to turn their loyalties. But if the account is true…" He shook his head.

  


"Not all men are as fickle as you believe them to be," Aragorn said quietly, a clear note of warning in his voice. "Do you treat those of Dale with the same discourtesy you have shown me?"

  


"Enough," Elrohir said sharply, laying a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder and drawing him back. "I would hear more of this story, for naught that is good comes to my mind at your vague hints. Speak, and tell us why these names are important to us now."

  


"I’d like to know who these names are to begin with," Sam added, looking rather unsure about entering the conversation but forging ahead anyway. "Elendil and Sauron I recognize easily enough, but what about those others? Who were they?"

  


"In one way or another, they were involved in the demise of Númenor," Celeborn answered. "But only a brief summary will have to suffice, for there is no time to tell you all that you should know. Amandil was Elendil’s father, and one of the last of the Faithful to serve on the ruling council of Númenor. Ar-Pharazôn was the king, and it was he who took Sauron prisoner. But over time, the prisoner became a confidant, Ar-Pharazôn had Amandil cast from the council at Sauron’s insistence, and the last stages of Númenor’s ruin began."

  


"Another item to note is that Ar-Pharazôn and Amandil were close friends as children," Thranduil murmured. "Despite the fact that Ar-Pharazôn opposed the Faithful, he allowed Amandil to retain his authority as a counselor for many years. But this changed quite suddenly when Sauron was eventually released from his chains."

  


"And you believe that Sauron did something to Ar-Pharazôn that aided in this change," Elladan guessed.

  


"That is indeed what I believe," Celeborn confirmed. "And based on records and tales I have found, I also believe that whatever Sauron did, it was not unlike what was done to first breed the Orcs."

  


This statement met with a rather stunned silence, and even the hobbits seemed properly frightened, though it was clear they did not understand all. Eventually, Elladan broke the stillness, his tone carrying hesitation as well as horror. "You mention the breeding of Orcs. Can you explain?"

  


"And will you tell us how this is important now?" Elrohir added, eyes glinting in the darkness.

  


"It is important now because I believe that our enemy is using the same process on Legolas and Merry that Sauron used on Ar-Pharazôn."

  


"And you liken it to the breeding of Orcs?" Aragorn demanded, looking as though his stomach had just been hit with a mithril club. "Then does hope still exist? Is this a permanent change you speak of?"

  


"Not necessarily," Celeborn answered, "and yes, hope still exists. I said the two processes were similar, but they are not completely the same. The methods and the requirements share things in common, but other things are very different. Aragorn, you sent me scrolls from the ruin of Orthanc concerning the first breeds of Orcs. I assume you read these scrolls before you sent them."

  


"I did," Aragorn murmured. "And Gimli as well, if I am not mistaken, for he was there when the scrolls were discovered."

  


"Only parts," the dwarf said quietly. "Such knowledge is dangerous, even in the hands of those who mean well. I had no desire to learn more."

  


"And yet sometimes knowledge is the only way to combat the darkness," Celeborn said. "Do you remember, Aragorn, the necessary conditions for the binding spells that would turn an elf into a servant of Morgoth and thus render him capable of reproducing creatures that could later be used to breed Orcs?"

  


"A broken body and a mind devoid of hope," Aragorn whispered. "But the process required years of torture and torment for a victim to reach such a stage, sometimes even centuries. Our enemy has not that luxury."

  


"Nay, he does not, but he is not breeding Orcs. Centuries are not necessary. What he is doing might be accomplished in a matter of days, depending upon the strength and stamina of those he seeks to shadow. This process is not as reliable and is not as grievous as that which Morgoth used upon his first elven captives, but it is effective."

  


"Effective in what way?" Elrohir demanded, a slight note of impatience entering his voice. "You have skirted the facts well, my lord, but I wish to know exactly what we face. What does this process do?"

  


Celeborn sighed, once more struggling to control his fraying temper. "To put it simply, it forces a victim to abandon his own will in favor of another’s. If I am right, then the elf and hobbit we seek are not going to be the elf and hobbit we knew."

  


"You still speak in riddles," Gimli hissed, folding his arms across his chest and assuming a belligerent stance. "Tell us plainly what is happening to Legolas and Merry."

  


"Do you truly wish to know?" Celeborn challenged, raising his brow.

  


"I can’t speak for the others in this, sir, but I know I’d feel better if we had a good idea of what happened," Sam spoke up hesitantly. "And it might give us some peace of mind. Leastwise we wouldn’t be guessing in the dark, if you understand me."

  


"In any case, we’ve searched for long hours without knowing why Merry and Legolas were taken or what was being done," Pippin added, his voice firm. "We deserve to know."

  


"None dispute your right to be informed, but the details are not pleasant," Celeborn said. "I will tell you this, and it will have to suffice: our friends have been subjected to torture of both body and spirit. Were we to stand before them now, it is possible that they would not recognize us. Their fears will have trapped them in a world they cannot control, and their loyalties will have been twisted into things they cannot understand. They will be subservient to an imposed will, and they may be unable to combat this."

  


"In what state shall we find Legolas and Merry?" Aragorn asked, his face blank but his eyes burning. "Will it be possible to move them or will their injuries prohibit such a thing?"

  


"I confess that I am uncertain," Celeborn admitted reluctantly. "We may find them in a state of unconsciousness. We may find them in something akin to a trance. I truly do not know. It should be safe to move them; I believe I can say that much. But I counsel that we heavily sedate them before undertaking such a move. We would not want them to wake before we reached the safety of Rivendell. My companies have brought with them herbs that will induce a heavy state of sleep. Do not err on the side of caution in their use!"

  


"Your words are certainly not words of comfort," Elladan murmured. "Unfortunately, they have the ring of truth to them."

  


"I remain unconvinced," Elrohir said flatly. "What proof have you that what we face here is similar to what Sauron did to Ar-Pharazôn? And how much do we truly know of what happened prior to the fall of Númenor? It seems to me that we have naught but tales and legends to work from."

  


"These mists of darkness are much like the clouds that Sauron ordered forth from Orodruin ere he attacked Minas Tirith. The sorcery is similar, but on a lower scale. It could be accomplished by a Black Númenórean. The task of turning a mind is also something that a Black Númenórean could do."

  


"That proves nothing," Elrohir argued. "There are many things within the power and scope of a Black Númenórean trained by Sauron. We do not even know with certainty that a Black Númenórean is behind this menace. What better proof have you to offer?"

  


For answer, Celeborn looked to Elladan and Thranduil, noting that both seemed willing to believe him. "I am asked for better proof," the lord of Lothlórien said. "Have you any insights that you wish to add?"

  


"We came to similar ideas, kinsman," Thranduil said quietly. "And more or less independently so. That hardly seems conclusive, but my own observations of these shadows and their effects are convincing. Your theory of what we face fits well with my own experience."

  


"And mine," Elladan whispered, his eyes going to the shadows strewn about his feet. "I have felt within this darkness a malice and a twisting force. Lord Celeborn’s words bring to mind the emotions and sensations that I have felt when searching for the trail beneath these mists. They evoke great fear as well as feelings of contention. But the fear makes it difficult to see that we are being manipulated. This could easily be a reflection of the thoughts belonging to he who controls these mists."

  


"Moreover, Elrohir, the theory makes sense," Celeborn concluded. "Why else would Orcs wish to attack hobbits? They could not have known Legolas and Gimli rode to meet them. They were seeking prisoners upon which dark arts could be performed. They were seeking prisoners of renown that could be turned against us."

  


"There are those who would seek prisoners for the sake of a ransom," Elrohir argued.

  


"Yet there has been no demand for a ransom of any kind," Aragorn pointed out, sighing and shaking his head. "They are wanted for other purposes."

  


"Bait, then," Elrohir tried, his voice taking on tones of desperation. Celeborn reflected that Arwen had reacted in a very similar manner to this theory. It seemed that both used anger to protect themselves from unpleasant possibilities.

  


"Why hide the trail?" Elladan asked in answer to Elrohir’s suggestion. "If Legolas and Merry were a lure for a trap, why hinder our movements to find them?"

  


"It was to buy time," Pippin said. "Whoever wanted them needed time to do whatever he was going to do."

  


"Time to alter their minds," Aragorn concluded grimly.

  


"And there was the Orc I found," Elladan added, his eyes narrowing as they turned again to Celeborn. "You asked me of him, and we both found it strange that a renegade Orc would feel allegiance to master that he had abandoned. Something had been done to affect his mind. Despite his desires, he was bound to serve the one he hated. He was bound by his own fear." He paused and then frowned. "You could have told me then."

  


"I was uncertain then," Celeborn answered. "But I am fairly certain now."

  


"If you are fairly certain of this, then perhaps you know the answer to another question," Thranduil said, and something in his quiet voice put Celeborn on alert. "What chance is there that we shall arrive before this Númenórean’s work has been completed? And what chance is there for healing them should we arrive too late?"

  


"To answer the first question, I suspect we are already too late," Celeborn said reluctantly. "The change in these shadows is one such indication. The mists are no longer as insistent or pervasive. They are something against which we must guard, but their influence is less now. A purpose has been accomplished."

  


"And the answer to the second question?" Gimli prompted, his eyes flashing.

  


"There is a record of one man who recovered from this. Moreover, I believe I have an idea of how best to approach this particular problem. Sam’s wife said something that resonated with me, and I believe it possible, if we are indeed too late, to restore Legolas and Meriadoc."

  


"But you wish them to be in Rivendell first, correct?" Aragorn asked.

  


"Correct. Familiar surroundings may help."

  


"Then if we are finished here, let us find them and get them to those familiar surroundings," Gimli growled.

  


"Have you anything else to share, Lord Celeborn?" Elladan asked.

  


"Only this," Celeborn said. "The one who initiated the binding process must be destroyed. If he is not brought down, I harbor little hope that Legolas and Merry can recover."

  


"Then he will die," Thranduil promised, his voice emotionless but his eyes flashing. Celeborn felt a strange shiver of fear creep up his spine, and a quick glance at those gathered revealed that he was not the only one unnerved by Thranduil’s vow. The hobbits had taken several steps backward, Gimli’s hands were tightening about the haft of his axe, Aragorn’s eyes had narrowed, and Elladan and Elrohir had moved closer together as though looking for support. All of which was quite understandable, for when Thranduil set his mind to something, nothing stood in his way. And the rolling waves of seething fury in his eyes were enough to stop a Nazgûl cold.

  


It was Elrohir who eventually broke the silence that had descended upon them all. "Since we now seem to have sufficient information, let us turn out minds elsewhere and decide upon a method of searching for these Orcs and their stronghold. The path we were following can no longer be walked with safety. What are our options?"

  


"We divide and search southward," Thranduil answered, and his cold hatred had now given way to tones of frustration and anger. "I have been pressing for such a change, yet my counsel has gone unheeded. And it has been to our loss, I might add."

  


"We were too far from our object for such searches to be effective," Elladan protested.

  


"Peace," Celeborn interjected firmly. "Peace, what was done is done. It cannot be altered, and we are separating now. Though I should ask, Thranduil, as to whether or not you have taken this group too far from the original trail. We are now far to the west of the path."

  


"There will be more than one entrance to this stronghold, and the number of Orcs still about indicates that a second entrance is probably nearby," Thranduil answered, his eyes did flashing indignantly. "We are not astray, Lord Celeborn. I have done this often enough in my own realm."

  


"I shall find comfort in your assurance, then," Celeborn said, deciding that Thranduil’s concern for Legolas would not have allowed him to take unnecessary risks in direction. "Now it only remains to be seen how this search will be managed. Shall each realm take a direction?"

  


"That would be wise," Aragorn said. "Coordination within units would be easier. I suggest four groups. My men, Gimli, Pippin, and Sam shall be upon the ground and we will strike directly south. Greenwood, Lothlórien, and Rivendell can each move separately."

  


"I counsel that the Galadhrim stay near the men," Thranduil said. "Your two groups are smallest. It would be best to stay near one another. My archers and I will move southeast while Elladan and Elrohir lead their forces to the southwest."

  


"Agreed," Elladan said. "And as we are greatest in number, Rivendell shall also supply runners that may act as communication among our groups. We should be ready to move within the hour."

  


"Greenwood is ready now," Thranduil said sharply. "And we will be moving immediately."

  


"Then good luck to you," Celeborn said before anyone else could say aught. Whatever the reason for his former restraint, Thranduil’s impatience was beginning to get the best of him and he would not hold back much longer. It would be folly to delay him now, and the elves of Mirkwood were more than capable of seeing to their own safety should they choose to strike out ahead of the others. "Once our own forces are mustered, we shall join you."

  


"If it’s not too much to ask, what exactly are we searching for?" Pippin piped up.

  


"Caves," Thranduil said, glancing at Gimli before quickly looking away. "Caves and signs of Orcs. Send word if you discover aught. I will have elves ranging upon all sides, and they shall intercept your own scouts should you wish to find us. Now let us go, and may we go swiftly. I fear that Celeborn speaks the truth when he says we may already be too late."

 

  


 


	25. Delving into Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

****

Chapter 25: Delving into Darkness  


  


It was done.

  


Loosing a sigh of immeasurable weariness, the shrouded figure known as the Mouth of Sauron knelt between his two prisoners. For better or for worse, he had finished his work with them. The results were far from perfect, but nothing more could be accomplished. Time was up. All that remained was to collect the scattered pieces of their minds and mold them into something that would be serviceable.

  


Turning his attention first to the prone elf, the man who was no longer quite a man ran his cold hand over the fair face, brushing aside fallen tendrils of hair and smoothing away the wrinkles that marred the furrowed brow. He felt the prisoner shudder beneath his touch but the elf did not pull away as he had the first few times, and at a soothing word from his oppressor, he relaxed slightly. And as he calmed, the Mouth of Sauron submerged himself in the world of the unseen and reached for the drifting strings of Legolas’s thoughts.

  


He found himself swallowed by a sea of confusion.

  


The elf’s mind was awash with anarchy. Coherency had been shattered in the face of overwhelming terror, and the pieces of sanity’s broken shards tore at the fabric of the elf’s soul. For a moment, the Mouth of Sauron feared that he had gone too far in pressing the elf. There seemed to be nothing left save for the chaos of madness. But as he continued to wade through the whirling panic that ruled his captive’s mind, he began to sense what might be an underlying order. Hope tugged at his tainted soul, and he pursed this possible discovery, making careful note of any patterns that arose in the frightened thoughts that buffeted him. And as he pressed harder, he felt a spark of defiant flame rear up to block his path. It was faint and scarce to be seen, but it was there. 

  


The elf was not completely broken.

  


Relief swept the Mouth of Sauron, and a sickening smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Retreating quickly so as not to overwhelm this fragment of rebellion, he loosed a light wave of darkness, watching and waiting to see how the elf would react. And as he had hoped, the fire of defiance cowered into submission, almost vanishing as it buckled beneath the onslaught. Reassured that his work with Legolas had not been in vain, the Mouth of Sauron began building upon the remnants of the elf’s consciousness, constructing patterns of logic that linked directly to the faint echoes of rebellion. It was a rather primitive way of doing things, but it would have to serve. There was no time for more elaborate or enduring creations. But the Mouth of Sauron was confident that his mental handiwork would last long enough for Legolas to accomplish his mission. And the binding was tight enough that he should not deviate from his path.

  


The Halfling, on the other hand…

  


Withdrawing from the elf’s mind, the Mouth of Sauron paused a moment to gather his thoughts before turning to his other prisoner. The hobbit had expelled quite a bit of the black liquor that was customarily used to break elves. Some had certainly passed into his system, but without knowing how much, the Mouth of Sauron had no way of telling exactly how much influence he now held over Merry. Nor did he have any way to determine how long the influence would last.

  
__

If I could make an escape and assure the continuation of my own life, I would not fear this, the man who was not quite a man sighed grimly. _But the elves press too close for that. Should I retreat, they would find me. Nay, I believe it unlikely that I will live past the morrow. But because of that, I cannot be completely certain of either prisoner. And this hobbit…he is unlike anything I have ever encountered. He has no mental defenses of his own. He cannot will me to depart from his mind, and yet I find myself repelled by an unknown force._

  


Had the Mouth of Sauron possessed the time, he would have thoroughly enjoyed examining this hobbit in far greater detail. The resistance Merry gave him was truly singular. Elves and dwarves were considered difficult victims to subdue, but this simple Halfling put to shame the greatest defenses that could be mustered by the children of Eru and Aulë. It was not a conscious defense, but it was strong, nonetheless. And simple. As he considered it, the Mouth of Sauron decided that it was the simplicity that most intrigued him. Elves accounted wise and powerful could create winding mazes within their minds that baffled and confused those seeking dominance. Hearty dwarves trained in such matters could call upon the strength of Arda to bolster natural mental defenses that were considerably strong to begin with. Even men of certain bloodlines—if properly instructed—could wage vicious mental battles, sometimes endangering the mind of the one seeking entry. But this hobbit…it was as though darkness washed over him without so much as a ripple to mark its passing. There were some effects, but they were small and led to unexpected developments. It was baffling and confounding at the same time that it greatly intrigued this man who was no longer quite a man. He wished to have more time with this hobbit so that he could explore the furthest reaches of his mind and discover the limits of Merry’s resistance.

  


But time was a luxury of the past, if indeed he had ever possessed it to begin with. Now he would have to trust the hand of fate and send his prisoners forth, no matter how unprepared. And when considering the hobbit, the concept of _unprepared_ took on a completely new meaning. Still, there was nothing that could be done about that now, and so firmly establishing himself within his own mind, the Mouth of Sauron allowed his thoughts to seep into the dreams of the hobbit.

  


At first, he found nothing.

  


Startled, the Mouth of Sauron withdrew. The hobbit still lived, but his mind was vacant. Perhaps he had kept down much of the black liquor after all. And perhaps it had been enough to completely destroy his mind. The Mouth of Sauron had been quite unsure of himself when administering the draught. It had been created and mixed with the idea that elves would be the recipients. The elixir had been used once or twice on men, but never on dwarves or hobbits. Its effects on smaller beings were unknown, and the Mouth of Sauron feared that his gamble had failed miserably.

  


But Sauron’s former lieutenant was not easily dissuaded. The darkness of Barad-dûr had taught him that persistence was sometimes the only barrier between victory and painful death. He had set out to properly train this hobbit, and he intended to pursue that goal until it was clear that there was no hope of success. Once more entering the hobbit’s mind, he drifted deeper, slowly letting his own identity slip away as the world became darker and darker.

  


And then he found it.

  


It was as though he had opened up a mountain and discovered a teeming colony of goblins where all was still before. Far below the surface, the hobbit’s mind was very active and completely intact, but it was buried so deeply that signs of it did not exist on the conscious level. The Halfling had abandoned all ties to reality and now existed completely within himself. He had retreated from the outside world and was aware of nothing that went on around him. Raging emotions and memories occupied his mind, and on an even deeper level, an unforgiving instinct for self-preservation kept his body alive and forced him to draw each and every torturous breath.

  


Again retreating from the hobbit’s mind, the Mouth of Sauron paused to consider this unusual development. Fleeing reality was a common defense mechanism in men when they were pressed too hard and too long. The man who was not quite a man had tortured and abused countless numbers of prisoners, and he had seen this many times. But he usually saw it after weeks or even months of slow and grueling pain. He had not expected it from the hobbit, especially when large portions of Merry’s mind still seemed to be untouched by evil. And then there was the emotional turmoil to consider. A retreat from reality usually involved a retreat from memory as well. Something had frightened this hobbit to the point where he completely shut himself into his own mind, but he continued to relive the horror within himself.

  
__

Loyalty, the Mouth of Sauron remembered, his dark eyes closing as he traced the progress of suggestive influence that he’d used in working with the hobbit. At first, he’d hoped to convince Merry that abandoning Legolas was the best tactic. But when Merry would not depart even after the elf commanded him to flee, a new idea had taken hold. But it had required altering the hobbit’s perception of reality, and thus, the Mouth of Sauron had risked using the black elixir. It had worked, and within the hobbit’s mind, Sauron’s lieutenant had convinced Merry to murder the elf in the name of loyalty and friendship. But it seemed that this had pressed him too far. He was not broken, but he was beyond reach for the moment. And that would not do.

  


The Mouth of Sauron was weary. Had he still possessed the resources and power of Barad-dûr, he would have the strength necessary to call the hobbit back. But with his master’s fall, he was now forced to rely upon his own resources. And they were not adequate to both control an elven prince and to call a Halfling back into the void of his mind. The elf alone might have been manageable. But not the hobbit. _And earlier, I had hoped to capture three hobbits_ , he thought bitterly. _Now I learn I cannot even control one. By the strength of the Morannon, has the might of the Dark Lord fallen so low that even vengeance cannot be accomplished?!_

  


Reaching the limits of his patience and feeling the icy edge of desperation cut through his heart, the man who was not quite a man placed his hands upon the hobbit’s face and sank into Merry’s mind. As before, he was forced to delve deeply before finding the Halfling’s thoughts, and as he sank further, his exhaustion began to overwhelm him. He had very little time in which to act, and he was still uncertain that he even _could_ act. So much was unknown in this, but if now was not the time for risks and gambles, then such a time did not exist.

  


Stopping on the fringes of the hobbit’s mind, the Mouth of Sauron allowed tendrils of his own feelings to brush against Merry’s senses. He allowed the sensation of touch to tease the hobbit, telling him of the hard ground underneath and the damp chill in the air. And then he began to create other sensations, firmly implanting them in the hobbit’s mind and forcing his way into memories. The hobbit began to resist his meddling, but the Mouth of Sauron withdrew, stopping just far enough away that the hobbit was forced to follow him if he wanted to continue the fight. And Merry did follow, his legendary hobbit tenacity proving to be his doom. As before, the Mouth of Sauron began to give him impressions and memories, and as before, Merry resisted. But he did not resist the thoughts themselves. Rather, he struck back against the one that intruded, and this proved to be the saving point for the Mouth of Sauron. Had the hobbit resisted the ideas that he planted, all would have been lost. But the resistance was not focused enough for that, and so he continued to feed sensations and ideas to the hobbit, hoping desperately that they would carry over into the waking world. And then he retreated again as the hobbit drew too close, once more stopping when he was just out of reach.

  


They played this game for some time before the Mouth of Sauron withdrew completely, leaving Merry just short of consciousness. He did not want the hobbit to wake completely, especially when the elf lay beside him. The sight of Legolas might be real enough to destroy the implanted memories and desires. Rather, he would allow the rescuers to call the Halfling back from the shadows, for they would probably separate the two in an attempt to better deal with each on an individual basis.

  


And now the Mouth of Sauron was truly finished with his work. Nothing more could be done, and it was time to organize the Orcs. The elves drew close, and ere long, some of them would find one of the cave’s many entrances. They would delay their attack until dawn, using the light of the sun to weaken the Orcs, but that still did not leave much time for preparation. This was probably the last night that the Mouth of Sauron would ever see, and he intended to put it to good use.

  


* * * *

  


The moon was silent overhead. The stars, also. The sounds of the earth were muffled by a blanket of darkness, and the trees spoke only in whispers as though fearful of being heard. Shadows held sway this night, and their power shrouded the forest in a cloud as thick as the vapors that crept down the slopes of Orodruin. If any nightly creatures lived in the woods, they were still as stone and silent as death. The darkness that cloaked the forest was an unnatural darkness, and wise beings shied away from it as fire might shy from rain.

  


"Orophin!"

  


But not all in this forest could be accounted wise beings. At least not this night. There were some that stalked the shadows with no care for their own safety. Or the safety of those who followed after them.

  


"Orophin!"

  


His irritation mounting at the constant calls, Orophin hissed quietly and shot a dark look over his shoulder. He could see very little in this black night, but other senses honed by many hunts upon Lothlórien’s western borders told him exactly where his brother was. Haldir’s pace was significantly slower than Orophin’s own, and the delay was beginning to chafe at him. He had not come all this way through darkness and torment only to be slowed now by a brother who refused the call to vengeance. And he could certainly not allow this brother to give away their position with constant noise.

  


"Orophin!"

  
__

Silence! Orophin felt like screaming the command, but he held his peace. Nevertheless, the desire for silence roared through his being as loud as thunder rolling through the hidden canyons of the Misty Mountains. It was silence that Haldir had demanded just before he took Rúmil away. It was silence that had found and comforted Orophin as he shook with grief. It was in silence that he had found his answers, and it was silence that would now help him take those answers and see them realized as triumphs. As vengeance. As accomplishments that would give Rúmil cause for pride in his younger brother.

  


"Orophin!"

  


In the midst of his twisting grief, Orophin had decided that Haldir had taken Rúmil from him for a reason. Orophin had not been strong enough to shoulder the burdens that Rúmil left behind. He was not strong enough to take the place of the lost marchwarden. It was true that he was an accomplished marchwarden in his own right, but he could never hold a candle to his brother’s accomplishments. He was unworthy to carry his brother’s body. And so Haldir had taken him away. It had been a lesson. A challenge. A test. And Orophin now intended to see that he passed the test with flying colors.

  


"Orophin, you must stop!"

  


He had to mirror Rúmil’s actions. Follow in his steps. Tread where he had trod. He had to now do what Rúmil would have done. Unable to deal with grief himself because he was weak, Orophin was dealing with it as Rúmil would have. The silence had spoken to him of his flaws and his failings. He had heard and understood, and then he had found an example. Rúmil would have been seeking for vengeance, and so Orophin now also sought vengeance. Rúmil would have made his peace with Haldir before requesting his assistance, and so Orophin had apologized and then asked his oldest brother to accompany him. But he was now beginning to regret that decision, for Haldir was proving to be weak. Weakness could not be tolerated. Not now. Not when they were so close. And they were very close. Orophin could feel it. They were nearing a large body of Orcs, and the presence of so many could only mean that they were close to the base. With this in mind, Orophin increased his pace even more. Rúmil would now act with boldness. Rúmil would not let any stand in his way. Even the shadows seemed to whisper that this was so.

  


"By the will of Ilúvatar, Orophin, halt!"

  


It was too much for Orophin. Rúmil would not have tolerated such delays. Rúmil would have confronted Haldir. Rúmil would have made clear the need for silence. His eyes blazing, Orophin stopped and turned, watching with unveiled disgust as his brother hurried to catch him. "It is a wonder that all the Orcs of Eriador do not know our position," he spat when the other elf drew near.

  


Something flickered across Haldir’s face, but in the darkness, Orophin could not interpret it. But that did not matter, for Rúmil would have ignored it. Rúmil focused on his objective. Rúmil did not cater to warriors who were too slow or too fickle to fulfill a mission. If Haldir was now feeling uncertain, he would have to be abandoned. This was no place for the cowardly and the weak. The shadows and the silence told him so.

  


"Orophin, this is madness," Haldir said, stopping several feet away from his brother. "Surely you see it!"

  


"Madness?" Orophin challenged, the fires of rage igniting in his heart. Normally a rather passive and patient individual, Orophin found these new emotions strange but also wondrously exhilarating. He could feel his mind and determination feeding off of the anger that grew in his soul, and as they became strong, he became powerful. None could oppose him. None could bar his way. He was Rúmil’s kin, and he would honor the memory of the deceased with a display of vengeance so great that none would ever doubt his devotion to his brother.

  


"Yes, madness!" Haldir answered, his words stoking Orophin’s rage. "We are but two elves. Yes, we are marchwardens, and yes, we have been trained by some of Lothlórien’s finest warriors. But we are still only two elves against a host of darkness that possesses abilities we do not understand! We must know more, and we must join with others against this."

  


"You speak only of delay, and you cloak your words in excuses and rationalizations," Orophin said coolly. "But I see now what I was too blind to see before. You are a coward, Haldir. You fear that without Rúmil you will falter. Allow me to tell you that you have already failed. But I will succeed. Rúmil will live on within me. I will not dishonor him."

  


Had Orophin been in his right mind, his talent for constant and extreme observation would have informed him that Haldir was only moments away from drawing his sword and lashing out. Of course, had Orophin been in his right mind, he would have never spoken so to his brother. But Orophin was well beyond the borders of sanity and so remained ignorant of his danger. In his eyes, Haldir was too weak to strike back. He might become angered, but anger in one so full of cowardice was something to be pitied rather than feared.

  


"You accuse me of dishonoring him?" Haldir asked, his voice strained and his eyes flashing.

  


"I shudder to think I did not see it until now," Orophin snapped. "But it is all too clear. When Rúmil was strong, you cowered. When Rúmil was bold, you shrank from the task. And when Rúmil was in need, you hesitated. You have not changed. But I have. And I will not allow Rúmil to slip away so easily."

  


His brother’s hands balled into fists and one strayed to the hilt of his sword, but then Haldir froze. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Nothing dared move or breathe. Even the wind died away. And then Haldir stepped back, his anger seeming to vanish behind an expressionless façade. "Orophin, Rúmil is dead," he said, his voice little more than a whisper. "He has already slipped away. Naught can change that now. Do not hasten to join him!"

  


"And again you speak with the voice of fear!" Orophin shouted, his earlier desires for silence giving way to anger and frustration.

  


"Think of what you are doing!" Haldir entreated, a flash of moonlight through the trees revealing earnest eyes filled with concern. "Think and tell me that Rúmil would approve of such a foolish plan!"

  


"You know nothing of Rúmil!"

  


For a long time, Haldir stared at Orophin, his face a mass of conflicting emotions, and silence descended upon them once again. But this time, Orophin decided that he did not like silence as much as he thought he had. It had become uncomfortable. Uncertain. Unknown. It no longer held the clear, crisp answers that had previously guided his actions. But why should that be? What was different? What… _Haldir_ , Orophin suddenly realized. _Haldir now intrudes upon the silence. Even though he does not speak, his presence is loud. He cannot be here. I cannot have him with me. He does not understand. He will never—_

  


"Very well, Orophin, since this is the way you desire it," Haldir murmured. Something in his voice had changed, but Orophin could not say what this change meant. Almost it seemed that he had resigned himself to an unpleasant but also unavoidable task. "I will play your game with you," Haldir continued, his eyes locked upon his brother’s face, "and may you still have the ability to forgive me when we are done."

  


"Of what do you speak?" Orophin demanded, thrown by both the strange words and the strange tone of Haldir’s voice.

  


"You say I know nothing of Rúmil?"

  


Now completely confused, Orophin frowned and started to turn away. "Time marches on and our chance of success diminishes. If you wish to stay, then—"

  


"You _will_ listen," Haldir said sternly, moving swiftly and placing himself in front of his brother. Orophin could not recall a time when Haldir had spoken with such authority or with such disdain. Suddenly unsure of himself, Orophin stepped back and tried to regain the confidence he had felt only moments before.

  


"Your words are without meaning. You seek only to delay me and—"

  


"And you can do naught to prevent me," Haldir interrupted. "I can force you to stand here and listen to me. But Rúmil would not have tolerated this. Rúmil would not have stopped to debate. Rúmil would have spoken once and then moved on, heedless of my protests."

  


Orophin felt his mouth drop open in shock, but anger swiftly took hold once more. "How dare you—"

  


"No, Orophin. How dare _you_! You think to imitate one of the greatest marchwardens to serve beneath Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel? ‘Tis a mockery! A mockery of the vilest sort!" Haldir stepped closer, his eyes challenging. "Tell me you have mastered Rúmil’s technique with the spear. Tell me you have his gift for strategy under pressure. Tell me you possess his ability to sense Orcs and their numbers. Tell me you have even a small amount of any of these things!"

  


"I—"

  


"You cannot!" Haldir took another step closer, bringing his faces only inches away from Orophin’s. "I know not why I even tolerate you. Valar, I believe I now have more reason for vengeance than you, for I have been forced to stand here and listen as you shame our brother! You do not have his cunning or his wits. You do not have his swiftness or his bravery. You do not have his courage or his temper. You are nothing, Orophin! Nothing! And in attempting to don Rúmil’s mantle, you pull him down into the festering fen that is your own pitiful existence!"

  


Orophin’s vision was tunneling until all around him ceased to exist with the exception of his brother’s face. Never before had he heard Haldir speak with so much rage and so much anger. Never before had he seen Haldir’s eyes blaze with what could only be interpreted as hatred and loathing. Never before had he felt such shame and fear when standing before his brother. And somewhere deep inside Orophin, a fragment of his former spirit shuddered, knowing that he was the cause of this outburst. He had brought this upon Haldir. But this feeling was not powerful enough to overwhelm the fires of indignation, which were now quickly consuming the last remnants of Orophin’s fragmented restraint.

  


"You were right when you spoke earlier," Haldir hissed, his voice growing cold as the winds that streamed off Caradhras during the winter. Reaching out, he seized Orophin by the tunic and dragged him forward until his hot breath was pounding against his brother’s brow. "You should have been in his place! It should be you and not he that lies silent and still in Imladris!"

  


Orophin felt his hands balling into fists. The world was turning into a sea of red, and damming the tide of seething blood that boiled through his veins was Haldir.

  


"I am ashamed to have ever called you kin!" Haldir hissed, his voice blending with the whispers of the silence until the two became one and all voices had but a single source. "Were Rúmil alive now, I am certain that he would say the same!"

  


And at these words, the flood of anger within Orophin broke.

  


His clenched fists flew forward, slamming into Haldir’s chin and snapping the older elf’s head back. Haldir’s hands flew away from Orophin’s tunic, and Orophin took this opportunity to press his advantage. He hit Haldir again, his left hand coming in from the side to pound against his brother’s temple while his right moved straight for the throat, instinctively looking to collapse the windpipe. But Haldir recovered too quickly to be overpowered, and he flinched back, mitigating the power behind the right strike. Then he began an attack of his own, and Orophin cried out as stars suddenly swam before his eyes after his head snapped sharply to the side. His wrists were then caught in an iron grip, and his arms were jerked roughly behind his back and held tightly. Pain shot through his shoulders, but Orophin did not heed is body’s cry for surrender. Slumping forward and forcing Haldir to catch his weight, he kicked backwards and swept his brother’s legs out from under him. But restrained as he was, Orophin could not recover his balance when Haldir stumbled against him, and locked together, the brothers fell from the tree branch.

  


Survival instincts took over, and Orophin tried to jerk his arms forward, his hands opening wide in order to catch passing limbs. But Haldir still held him tightly. Feeling the ragged edges of panic seep into his mind, Orophin began to struggle in earnest, trying to free his arms. Branches tore past the falling elves, and Orophin kicked his legs out, hoping to snag one and slow their descent while he fought to shake Haldir from his back. But his brother was too strong. Sensing that the ground now rushed to greet him, Orophin drew himself together as much as he was able and prepared for the jarring stop.

  


And then Haldir acted. Releasing his grip on Orophin’s wrists, he snaked one arm around his brother’s waist while the other shot out to the side, seizing a thick limb. The fall turned into a sharp swing toward the adjoining trunk, and Haldir twisted so that he took the brunt of the impact. His sharp exhale of air sounded loudly in Orophin’s ear as his back scraped across bark, and then the two were dropping down to land on a thick, protruding branch that promised to support their weight.

  


The moment they were secure, Haldir tightened his hold on his brother, wheeled about, and pressed him up against the tree trunk, his breath coming in ragged gulps. "You now fight to survive," he whispered, holding Orophin fast against the living wood. "You fight to preserve yourself. Do not forget that. You do not seek vengeance but rather survival!"

  


Fear was beginning to ebb in Orophin’s mind, and as it faded, he found himself lost in the midst of conflicting emotions. The anger and desire for vengeance he’d felt earlier was still there, but a growing feeling of guilt and shame was also present. And locked within this latter emotion was Orophin’s abandoned penchant for common sense.

  


"Orophin!" Haldir hissed. "Orophin, I know you are stronger than this. Do not give up now!"

  


And Orophin heard his brother. As though a veil had been drawn aside, he saw the darkness that had twisted its way into his heart. He saw how it had used his grief to worm its way around his mind and shape his actions to suit its desires. The fear he’d felt continued to leave him, and in its wake, he managed to distance himself enough to examine what had happened. He began to tremble as he recalled the things he’d said to Haldir and the actions he’d planned for them. They would have been killed. Both of them. Haldir would have followed him into suicide, and the blame would have been upon Orophin’s head.

  


"Orophin?"

  


Tears stung the corners of his eyes, and Orophin turned his head to look back at his brother, who still held him firmly against the tree. "Haldir…forgive me."

  


Haldir’s hold relaxed and he drew back, turning Orophin so that they faced one another. "Your mind is with me again?" he asked, his hands coming to rest upon slender shoulders.

  


Orophin nodded, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears the threatened to flow. "Yes," he whispered. "I am no longer filled with that madness."

  


"Good," Haldir said quietly, but his eyes were guarded. "Orophin, the things I said earlier…I did not—"

  


"You were right," Orophin interrupted. "It should have been me. I am the weaker one. I—"

  


"No!" Haldir said fiercely. "No, you are not! You held the madness at bay far longer than I did."

  


Orophin clenched his jaw and shook his head. "But—"

  


"Hush," Haldir commanded, stopping his brother and drawing Orophin against him in a firm embrace. "I meant not what I said. Those words were only intended to draw a reaction from you. I needed you to fight for something other than vengeance. I needed you to fight for yourself. And I hope you will forgive me for the lies I spoke."

  


"But you were right," Orophin insisted as he continued to shake. "I tried to act as Rúmil would, and in so doing I—"

  


"Hush," Haldir soothed again. One hand came up and pressed against the back of Orophin’s head until it was resting upon Haldir’s shoulder. "Hush, my brother. You were grieving then, and you are grieving now. You sought to keep something of Rúmil’s spirit with you, and there is no shame in that."

  


"I could not do him justice," Orophin stammered, feeling the agony that he’d hidden away trickle back into his consciousness. And without anger to shield his heart, he felt as though the force of his grief would rend his spirit until there was naught left of it.

  


"As his brother and one that learned from him, you do him justice every day," Haldir whispered. "But if you mean that you cannot replace him, then you would be correct. You can no more become Rúmil than you can summon him back from the Halls of Mandos." Haldir pulled back then, his hands clutching Orophin’s shoulders tightly. "And I do not wish for you to replace him, for in that, I would lose you. You are not Rúmil, Orophin. And you do not need to become him to deal with what has happened."

  


"I was too weak," Orophin protested quietly, remembering the turmoil and the utter silence in which he’d found himself.

  


"Nay, you were not too weak," Haldir answered with a shake of his head. "You were vulnerable, yes, and the shadows found entry to your mind because of this. But you are a marchwarden of Lothlórien, commissioned by Lady Galadriel herself. She chose her warriors carefully, Orophin, and she did not choose cowards or weaklings."

  


"Then why am I unable to deal with losing Rúmil?" Orophin asked, his voice catching in his throat.

  


"For the same reason that I am unable. There are darker forces at work, and we can not overcome them alone. But that has changed. We are together, now, and together, we may _both_ grieve."

  


Above them, the limbs of the tree seemed to part, and moonlight shone down, reflecting off the unshed tears that filled Haldir’s eyes. And overcome by the need to both give and receive comfort, Orophin moved forward and wrapped his arms around his brother. Haldir quickly returned the embrace, and together they sagged against the tree as they began to weep. The feelings of loss and grief were still strong within Orophin, but they were tempered now by a brother’s protective love and the pain could be endured. As long as Haldir stood with him, all could be endured. So armed with this knowledge, Orophin gave himself over to his own tears. And as he began to shake with the force of his sorrow, Haldir’s arms tightened around him, providing a sense of solace and safety even as the sounds of quiet sobs made it clear that the sorrow was shared. And slowly but surely, feelings of relief began to creep into Orophin’s heart as cleansing tears rolled down his face. There was no shame in seeking help, and he was not weak for shrinking before overwhelming grief. He knew that now, and because he knew this, he was able to overcome.

  


And so the stars watched in gentle silence as Orophin and Haldir clung tightly to one another, taking from each other the strength and comfort needed to banish the last remnants of darkness that hovered within their souls. Perhaps it was not what Rúmil would have done, but beyond any doubt, it was what Rúmil would have wanted.


	26. Against the Grindstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

The Hall of Fire was empty when Rose Cotton Gamgee entered. The sun had set several hours ago, and most of Rivendell’s exhausted inhabitants had sought what rest they could find as soon as they were able. No song or story had been told in the hall this night. The only visitor—aside from the hobbit—was the starlight that crept in through the wide windows lining the sides of the hall. This faint light mixed with the roaring flames in the massive hearth to bathe the room in a gentle glow. From outside, the bubbling murmur of cascading water could be heard, and from within the hall, the quiet crackling of the fire whispered words of comfort and peace.

  


But even as it offered reassurance, the fire was not entirely calming. Contained within the dancing flames was an element of hidden sorrow. Forgotten pain. Quiet grief. Almost it seemed that the fire mourned for days long past even as it strove to welcome days yet to come. In some ways, it reminded Rosie very much of the elves. The Eldar were filled with mirth and walked with power, but they were also vulnerable. Tainted, if such a term could be used to describe elves. They had the light of Elbereth’s stars, but the darkness of countless battles still shadowed their hearts. They ached with the weight of memories and yearned for years of glory that had been lost to the march of days and would never be seen again.

  


Not that Rosie thought about any of this consciously. Such musings were beyond her reach. She was blessed with a sharp intellect, but she was still a hobbit of the Shire whose mind had been raised on simple problems and simple solutions. Yet despite her inexperience with such weighty matters, her feelings and impressions were just as shrewd and accurate as any philosophical conclusions that a wiser being might draw. Elves intimidated her at the same time that she felt an overwhelming surge of pity and compassion for them. The Hall of Fire made her feel the same way. And at the moment, the conflicting emotions raised within her by sheer virtue of simply being in the hall were a perfect match for her bewildered state of mind.

  


She was exhausted. She had spent countless hours running errands for healers as they desperately tried to find an antidote for the poison that had infected many of the wounded elves. Fortune was on their side, and they had indeed found one in time to prevent the deaths of the injured that survived the trip home to Rivendell. But it had been a near thing, and Rosie still trembled slightly because of it.

  


She was also terrified. She had witnessed the hectic aftermath of a battle with Orcs, and she had seen the powerful, valiant elves laid low by blade and bolt. The enemy had killed and would not hesitate to do so again. Sam was still out in the woods. He was still in harm’s way.

  


And she was grieved. In addition to assisting the healers, she had aided in burying the dead. It was an experience she did not wish to have again. There was something about the passing of an immortal that had struck a chord deep within her. She could not explain exactly what had so affected her and she could not explain why she was still greatly upset by it. But the fact remained that a heaviness had descended over her hobbit heart, marring a part of her innocence. And she doubted that she would ever be the same.

  


So Rosie had come to the Hall of Fire. When an elf had introduced her to this hall the previous night, she had been completely entranced. Elanor had been with her at the time, though, and she had not had the chance to fully appreciate this place that seemed to be a living tomb for memories of every Age. But this night, Elanor had fallen asleep several hours ago and was now tucked snuggly away in bed, giving Rosie a few moments in which to reflect on all that she had experienced. And there seemed to be no better place for this reflection than the Hall of Fire.

  


So much had happened! During the day she had busied herself with every chore she could find, seeking out elves and offering her help even though there was little she could do in some cases. But now that the day had passed, fears were creeping back into her heart, in particular her fears for Sam. Rosie had a sense that the current situation was as nothing compared to what her husband had endured during his long journey with Frodo, yet that did not assuage her worries. The powerful elves were vulnerable against those terrible Orcs. Her husband would be vulnerable, too. And then there was Merry, who had been taken by the dreadful beasts… What horrors did he face? What if Sam was taken? What would he face? What if she never saw him again? What if Elanor and young Frodo were forced to grow up without a father? A choking sob caught in the back of her throat and Rosie shuddered. The weary, grieving hobbit was in no condition to face these fears and concerns, and her heart trembled within her as she stared at the flames.

  


"Bless me, we should have never left the Shire," Rosie whispered, her vision blurring as her eyes filled with unshed tears. "Bree is safe enough, by all accounts, but to come all the way here… Sam said there were things worth seeing beyond the borders, and I don’t argue that. But there’s darkness, too, and I don’t think hobbits were ever meant to see so much of both good and bad."

  


Memories of the day came rushing into her mind, and she winced as she remembered cleaning out the wounds of the elves. She remembered thinking that every wound she treated might have been a wound that her husband sustained. What chance did a simple hobbit have against such power and such evil?

  


One of the tears collecting in her eyes managed to escape, and it rolled down her cheek as she stared at the roaring fire before her. Somehow, she knew that many tears had already been shed in this hall. She could feel the memories of such sorrow pressing upon her. She was not the first to come here looking for solace, nor would she be the last. Though she was the only one within the room, the Hall of Fire was never truly empty, for all who had ever been here left something of themselves behind. Rosie was not alone in her grief, and for some reason, this gave her comfort.

  


Wiping at her face, the hobbit sighed and turned away from the fire. She should seek her own bed. If Elanor woke and found herself to be alone, she would be frightened. Rosie could not have that. There was enough fear in her heart for both of them, and she would spare Elanor that anguish if possible.

  


"My greetings to you, Rose Gamgee."

  


Rosie jumped, her breath hitching in her throat and her heart pounding. Looking quickly to the doorway that led into the Hall of Fire, her eyes quickly landed upon the fair features of Gondor’s queen, who seemed to be struggling to hide a smile.

  


"My apologies," Arwen said, the corners of her mouth twitching. "It was not my intention to startle you."

  


"Oh, that’s…that’s alright," Rosie stammered. "I didn’t hear you come in. Am I intruding?"

  


"That question should be mine to ask," Arwen said, moving toward a bench and taking a seat. "For you seemed deep in thought and I did not wish to interrupt. Have I disturbed you?"

  


"No! No, you haven’t," Rosie said quickly. "I was just leaving, actually."

  


"You seek rest?"

  


Rosie nodded. "Yes. Also, I don’t want to leave Elanor alone for long, my lady."

  


"Your daughter is fortunate to be blessed by such a loving mother," Arwen said.

  


"I don’t know about that," Rosie answered with a slight grimace. "I ought not to have left her alone in the first place."

  


"The healers tell me that your help was invaluable and that never once did you rest in your duties. Surely such effort merits a moment alone with your thoughts. I do not think that any could fault you for that." Arwen glanced around the spacious hall, her eyes lingering on the gaping windows that allowed entrance for the starlight. "Is this place to your liking?"

  


Rosie frowned, wondering where the conversation was going. She did not know Arwen well, but something told her that the queen wished for distraction. Something had upset her, and she now sought to forget about it for a while. "I don’t rightly know how to answer that," Rosie said at length in response to Arwen’s question. "This Hall of Fire seems a bit above my tastes, if you understand me. I don’t mean any offense, but…it’s a little much for a hobbit like me. I’m not used to…well…to feeling like this."

  


"You are unused to the memories," Arwen concluded with a sad smile. "For that, you have my envy. Would that I could be so innocent. It might be said that memories are the bane of the elves. The Eldar would be content were it not for the stain of years gone by."

  


Rosie studied Arwen for a moment, noting the weariness that seemed to weigh upon her shoulders as well as the lines of concern around her eyes. And eventually, the mothering instincts within Rosie could no longer be contained. Even if Arwen was centuries her senior, Rosie now had two children and she could not sit by and watch this growing suffering. "My lady, if I’m not out of place by asking, what’s troubling you?"

  


At first, there was naught by silence for an answer. And then Arwen laughed. It was a sorrowful laugh but there was contained within it the seed of mirth, and Rosie found her own spirits lifting slightly. "I had thought to comfort you when I learned you were here," Arwen murmured with a rueful shake of her head. "Alas, I fear my own concerns have gotten the better of me. Forgive me. I did not mean to burden you."

  


"It’s no burden," Rosie assured her. "I just thought I might help, seeing as you and all the elves here have helped me. Is there anything I can do?"

  


"Unless you are capable of tracking Marchwardens of Lothlórien, then nay. I fear there is nothing to be done," Arwen sighed, glancing out the dark windows. She then seemed to shake herself, and her bright eyes turned upon Rosie once more. "In any case, you have done more than enough and should now look to your own needs. I have no wish to fall under Sam’s censure should he return and find that we wearied you beyond your ability to endure."

  


"Oh, there’s no call to be worrying about that," Rosie said with something of a dismissive sniff. "Sam knows I need things to do, and he’ll know that I went out of my way to find those things that needed doing." She looked away, her thoughts darkening. "He’d tell you that himself if he were here now."

  


"He will return, Rose Gamgee," Arwen said quietly. "The elves will see to that."

  


"He’s just so stubborn!" Rosie exclaimed. "I’m worried he won’t let anyone see to his own safety. He’d sooner look out for another. And that’s one of the reasons I love him, but there are times…" She trailed off and shook her head, unsure of how to continue.

  


"In this, we are very much alike," Arwen said quietly. "My own husband is much the same. But as I have learned this day, we must accept them for what they are and also ourselves for what _we_ are. There are things in this world that cannot be altered, no matter how much we may wish to change them. The nature of others is one of these things."

  


"But accepting what we can’t change doesn’t make it any easier," Rosie said, her voice low.

  


"Nay. Nay, it does not," Arwen agreed. "But at least we are given a measure of understanding. And though the pain in our hearts remains, we are better prepared to face it because of this understanding."

  


Rosie furrowed her brow, not quite certain that she agreed with this. It seemed to her that pain was not a thing that could be prepared for but rather something that had to be endured. But Arwen sounded certain of herself, and if that brought the queen reassurance, Rosie wasn’t about to say otherwise. Besides, it was time she turned to other things. She had lingered here long enough. "I should go, my lady," she said. "Elanor doesn’t sleep well in strange places. She might wake."

  


"Then I wish you a good night," Arwen said, smiling gently and rising. "And do not fear for Samwise. He may not look after his own safety, but there are others who will do so for him. And he has a wise heart. He will be cautious."

  


"I know," Rosie sighed. "And thank you. But I think I’ll worry all the same."

  


* * * *

  


The shadows upon the ground were changing.

  


His eyes roaming the dark forest around him, Gimli scowled and wondered if anyone else felt this shift. The dwarf had actually been aware of it for some time, but it now seemed to be more pronounced. He could not say exactly what the change was, but something was certainly different. It was almost if there was a…a weakening. As though the will behind the shadows had relaxed. This did not make much sense to Gimli, for the shadows still seemed quite potent, yet…

  
__

Focus, he told himself firmly, redirecting his attention. The area they now searched was perfect for caves, and Gimli needed to be alert to changes in the ground beneath his feet. But it was difficult to concentrate when the darkness around him continued to shift, for that darkness was connected to the one who had captured Legolas and Merry. A change probably meant that something had happened, and Gimli was willing to bet that the change was not a good one.

  
__

Perhaps it is just me, Gimli rationalized. _Perhaps I am imagining this change._ But even as these thoughts came to him, the dwarf knew them to be lies. No one had commented on the shifting darkness—at least not to him—but he could tell that some of the elves had sensed something. Thranduil, in particular, came to mind. The elven king had changed his tactics since they first began this search several days ago, and his changes corresponded almost exactly with the changes in the darkness. Something was definitely afoot, but what that something was, Gimli could not say.

  
__

Focus! he told himself again. _Focus or you shall never find any caves!_ But as before, it was difficult. Far more difficult than it should have been. His mind kept returning to the mists about his feet, and from there, his thoughts would take him to Legolas. Perhaps he should not have listened when Celeborn revealed his suspicions concerning what was happening. Knowing what his friend might be enduring made fear more difficult to control.

  


Some would probably argue that more information resulted in greater confidence, and in certain situations, that might well be the case. But in this instance, Gimli regretted learning what they faced. Before Celeborn had spoken to them, this had been nothing more than a mission to rescue captives. There was certainly fear for those captives, but it was fear that Gimli had felt before. Fear of torture, brutality, and death were things that the dwarf had encountered all too often during his life. But now he had been introduced to new possibilities, and he did not like these possibilities. He had no experience in these matters. He had felt somewhat helpless before, but he felt utterly useless now. He knew the basic history of Númenor, but nothing beyond that. The things of which Celeborn had spoken were far beyond his area of expertise, yet they lay at the heart of what was happening to Legolas.

  


"Gimli?"

  


The dwarf was nearly startled into jumping. He managed to save his pride and steady himself before such an unseemly display could be seen, but the surprise only served to show him just how far his thoughts had strayed. _I am doing it again_ , he groaned to himself. _By the fires of Mahal, I must_ focus _!_

  


"Gimli?"

  


Glancing to the side, Gimli discovered that Sam and Pippin had joined him at some point in his musings. How long they had been there, he could not say, but their expressions suggested that they might have been calling him for quite a while.

  


"Gimli, are you feeling all right?" Pippin asked, his face concerned. "You don’t look well."

  
__

Am I feeling all right? Gimli resisted the rather maniacal urge to laugh. He had not been feeling all right for quite a while, but he wasn’t about to tell Pippin that. Still, the question did bring up a good point. How _was_ he feeling? Was he capable of controlling his thoughts long enough to focus on the murmurings of the earth? Or would such a task be left to the flighty, tree-loving elves while the dwarf let his fears get the better of him?

  


"Gimli?" Sam prompted.

  


"I was thinking," Gimli answered with a sigh.

  


"Thinking. That’s…good," Pippin said, his tone rather hesitant. "Sometimes it’s good to think. But sometimes it’s also good to act. Not everything needs thinking."

  


"And not every _one_ needs thinking, either," Sam added. "In fact, as my Gaffer is fond of telling me, some things you should never think about until after you’ve gone and done them. And some people should never think at all or else they won’t go and do anything."

  


Sam’s philosophy brought a slight smile to Gimli’s face even as he realized that this simple, rustic hobbit was right. The dwarf was thinking too much, and _that_ was why he could not seem to concentrate. Before Celeborn’s explanation, Gimli had been able to contain his anxieties and pay attention to the search. But now that the reason for Legolas’s capture had become clearer, it was difficult to focus because fear and helplessness were taking control. Gimli needed to stop thinking, stop feeling, and start following his instincts. They had proven to be useful tools over the year, and if he was to aid in finding a cave, he would have to trust to them now. His mind was no longer any use.

  


"Gimli?"

  


"You are correct, Master Gamgee," Gimli murmured. "And I thank you for your assistance."

  


"You’re quite welcome, I’m sure," Sam said, sounding rather pleased with himself, and it occurred to Gimli that the hobbits probably felt as useless as he did. Any chance to help in any way would be received with gratitude. If dispensing advice could elicit joy in Sam, then perhaps Gimli could put these two Halflings to work in other areas.

  


"Sam, Pippin, would you walk slightly ahead of me? And spread apart, if you would."

  


"We can do that," Pippin said. "But what’s the purpose?"

  


"I want you to pay close attention to the ground. If you feel any rises, any dips, or any other changes in the terrain, tell me. Such things might be indications that the entrance to a cave is close at hand."

  


"You think we’re near, then?" Sam asked, a tentative note of hope entering his voice.

  


"I believe so," Gimli answered, drawing one boot over the ground beneath his feet. "If Elladan is right and these Orcs have taken shelter in caves, we are very near."

  


"Good," Pippin murmured as he moved ahead of the dwarf and began feeling his way through the darkness. "I don’t know that I can stand any more waiting. And I don’t even want to think about Merry and Legolas having to wait any longer."

  


"But Strider did say that maybe nothing’s happening to them anymore," Sam said, though he did not sound as though he was convinced of this.

  


"He was only guessing because Elladan claims the shadows are changing," Pippin answered grimly. "Strider doesn’t know any more about what’s happening than we do. And I think that what we know is too much."

  


Gimli sighed and nodded in silent agreement, his thoughts once again drawn back to his earlier musings. Though they now suspected that Legolas and Merry were the subjects of Númenórean sorcery once used by Sauron, that really didn’t tell them much. Torture, mind games, forced loyalty…Gimli shuddered as the list rolled through his head. Celeborn had said that Legolas and Merry might not even recognize their rescuers. Their minds might not be their own. How did one heal such a thing? How did one address such a thing? What would recovery be like?

  
__

Focus! Gimli practically screamed at himself, once again realizing that he was no longer concentrating upon the earth but rather walking in a stupor. This was certainly not the way of the dwarves. Their minds were built to stand firm and strong against distractions should they choose to occupy themselves with but a single task. It was this peculiar talent that had enabled them to carve out vast regions beneath Arda and create the glory of Khazad-dûm as well as the lesser halls found in Erebor, the Iron Hills, and the Blue Mountains. Their focus and single-mindedness could sometimes rival the legendary concentration of the elves, and often it endured for longer periods of time. But tonight, beset with anxiety for his friends, Gimli could not seem to keep his mind in one place.

  


His hands curling around the haft of his axe, Gimli cursed the Orcs and the power that led them. The enemy had won on several fronts. It had successfully made off with two members of the Fellowship and it had then foiled the attempts of searchers. Moreover, it had divided these searchers through use of fell whispers in the darkness, and it was now preventing Gimli from doing what dwarves did best. It was preventing him from listening to the sounds of the earth. He was only dimly aware of the rock beneath his feet, and such a thing was nearly unheard of for dwarves, particularly those who were direct descendents of Durin.

  


"Gimli? Gimli, I think I might have found something."

  


The dwarf blinked, and anger reared up in his heart. Even as he had thought about concentrating on the task, his mind had taken him elsewhere. What was wrong with him this night?! Was he truly so weary and so concerned that the smallest duties could no longer be fulfilled? _Or is this a new product of the darkness?_ he suddenly wondered. _Is this distraction significant in some way?_ But there was no time to dwell on this, for too much time had already been wasted. Shaking his head fiercely, Gimli sternly disciplined himself and hurried toward Pippin, who was stepping about cautiously as though fearful of disturbing something.

  


"Here," the hobbit explained, moving back as Gimli reached him. "The ground is rising and it doesn’t feel the same anymore. I don’t know if this is what you’re looking for, but—"

  


Pippin was cut off as Gimli pushed him to one side and knelt, closing his eyes and running his hands over the ground. He would not suffer a lapse in concentration now. Not with victory so close. Not with Legolas so near! With every desire of his heart tuned to the whispers of Arda, he traced the contours of the stones and the soil, feeling and sensing things that were beyond the ability of men and elves to comprehend. He built a mental picture of the earth beneath him, constructing it from hints and clues garnered from the sighs of Arda as the weight of stone and mountain pressed upon it. And at length, he withdrew, standing and brushing his hands off as a sense of relief began to fill him. "Well done, Pippin," the dwarf murmured. "Well done. I believe you have found _exactly_ what we are looking for."

  


"This is it, then? There is a cave nearby?"

  


Gimli did not answer Sam for a moment but stared at the shadows upon the ground, illuminated by the slight touch of moonlight. "It is difficult to tell with certainty," he said at length. "But there is a change within the ground. The bedrock is closer to the surface, and it is rising further south. If it rises above the ground and breaks through the soil, then we are almost guaranteed to find a cave, for there are empty spaces beneath us. Caverns, and large ones at that. However," he cautioned, catching the spark of hope in the hobbits’ eyes, "this does not guarantee that a cave is close. It may take several miles for the bedrock to rise sufficiently. In addition to that, we might not find the right cave. If Elladan is correct, the area further south may be riddled with caves and underground passages. But at least there is more hope now than there was several minutes ago."

  


"Should we tell the elves?" Pippin asked, his enthusiasm undimmed in spite of Gimli’s warning.

  


"Nay, not yet," the dwarf murmured, moving forward slowly. "We should not terminate our searches in other areas. It is possible that another team might find a closer cave."

  


"But Strider, at least, ought to be told," Pippin reasoned. "This is all wearing on his mind and I think he could do with a bit of good news right now. We wouldn’t have to break off the other searches, but we could concentrate more resources on this one."

  


"And there’s still the Orcs to consider," Sam added. "I don’t fancy meeting them on a dark night in the woods, and I’d feel better if I knew some archers were following us."

  


"I believe that we are already being followed," Gimli said quietly, his mind now focusing itself more and more on the line of bedrock that he sensed. Armed with something tangible and sensing that results were now within reach, Gimli was finding it much easier to concentrate. "I have caught glimpses of elves moving about overhead, and I suspect that some have orders to watch us specifically," he continued. "But perhaps you are correct when you speak of Aragorn." He paused and looked away from the shadows, his eyes coming to rest upon Pippin and Sam as he considered their options. "Do you know where Aragorn is?"

  


"I think we can find him quickly enough," Sam answered.

  


"Very well. Go and bring him here," Gimli ordered. "But make certain that you stay together. And do not tarry for any reason until you find him! You are right when you speak of Orcs, Sam. We are drawing near their stronghold, and we should walk with a greater measure of caution."

  


"You’ll be alright without us?" Sam asked even as Pippin turned to leave.

  


Gimli smiled slightly at the hobbit’s concern and nodded. "There are elves about, and should I have need of their services, I will call. Go now. And be safe!"

  


"We will," Pippin promised, seizing Sam by the arm when the gardener looked as though he might protest leaving the dwarf behind. "And we’ll be back soon. Come on, Sam. Let’s hurry!"

  


With Pippin in the lead, the hobbits soon vanished into the darkness of the night, and Gimli returned to his hunt. He moved faster now, and the strange waywardness of his mind seemed to have vanished. His concentration was back, and he could feel Arda groan beneath his feet as it struggled against the shrouding veil of shadow. He was close. The bedrock was beginning to rise swiftly, and almost he could hear echoes deep beneath the ground. The network of caves was drawing closer to the surface. There could be no mistaking that. All he needed to do now was to find the entrance.

  


His excitement getting the better of him, he began rushing forward, using the silent sounds of Arda to guide him. The distractions of the darkness faded away in the face of dwarven obsession, and as Gimli hastened through the woods, he felt the bedrock rise even higher. It would break the surface soon. Somewhere around here, it would form a cliff or a rise of some kind. A hill would spring up, and at the base of this hill, Gimli would find it. He would find his cave. And within that cave, he would find Legolas and Merry. Gone were the warnings he had given to the hobbits in the face of their optimism. This cave would be the right one, and an end would come of their seemingly fruitless search.

  


So caught up was he in his enthusiasm that Gimli failed to see a lithe form drop out of the trees directly in front of him, and he plowed into this figure with enough force to send them both sprawling.

  


Instinct honed over years of war and battle dictated his response as his hands closed around the haft of his axe. Pulling the weapon free even as he rolled to his feet, Gimli leaped back to give himself room and swung the axe through the air in a purely defensive move. Unfortunately, in accordance with the philosophy of dwarven defense, the stroke was also intended to maim and possibly to kill. About the time his axe reached the apex of its swing, Gimli realized that he might be making a serious mistake, and he wrenched himself violently to the side so as to alter the course of the attack. Even so, things might have gone grievously awry had not that the newcomer possessed exceedingly swift reflexes. He was already outside the dwarf’s strike radius before the axe had even begun to swing.

  


"Hold!" an elven voice hissed. "Peace! Stay your hand, _nogoth_!"

  
Gimli shuddered, his breath coming hard and the blade of his axe slamming into the ground as he forcefully stopped his attack. With narrowed eyes, the dwarf tried to calm his racing heart as he studied the elf before him. "Calbenarth?"

Calbenarth’s eyes flashed and Gimli was quick to notice that the elf’s hand hovered above the hilt of the knife on his belt. "You would do well to control yourself, Master Dwarf," Calbenarth warned, his voice as cold as the winter winds.

Gimli groaned and cursed his luck. When Legolas had first led a group of elves to Ithilien, Thranduil had dispatched Calbenarth to accompany him. The Mirkwood captain had overseen some of the construction efforts and assisted in driving the last of the Orcs from the Ethel Duath. Gimli and Aragorn had both been present for much of this, lending their own aid to Legolas’s efforts, and Gimli remembered Calbenarth with little fondness. The captain was an incredible military strategist and a gifted archer, but he had little tolerance for those he deemed unworthy of the skills and talents of the elves. " _You_ , Master Elf, would do well to avoid startling one armed with an axe," Gimli answered.

"I would have taken greater care to alert you to my presence had I known that your senses and judgement were so poor," Calbenarth retorted sharply, but to the dwarf’s relief, his hand was no longer near his knife.

Taking a deep breath, Gimli firmly schooled himself in patience and tried to remember that this particular elf was a captain that had earned Legolas’s deep respect. And at the thought of his missing friend, his previous urgency and focus returned. He did not have time to trade insults with an elf who would never see him as anything more than an aberration in the song of Ilúvatar. "Your pardon," Gimli said coolly. "It was not my intention to attack you. And now if you will step aside, I believe I may have found a vein of rock that shall lead us to a cave."

"That I cannot do, much as I might relish the idea," Calbenarth answered. His eyes still burned in anger, but he was a dutiful elf and was quickly regaining his composure and formality. "If you proceed much further, you shall find yourself in the midst of many Orcs. Indeed, it is a wonder that they have not already heard you."

Gimli blinked, his mind working quickly. "Orcs? What is their exact location?"

A look of annoyance passed over Calbenarth’s face, and for a moment, Gimli thought he might be refused an answer. But then the elf shook his head slightly and sighed, his expression becoming unreadable. "You were correct, son of Glóin. However you knew it, the entrance to a cave does indeed lie in this direction. And judging from the number Orcs about, it would seem to be the correct entrance."

Gimli felt his mouth drop open in shock. The realization that their search was now at an end stunned him, and he found himself unprepared for the swell of relief and excitement that swept through him. "We found it?" he questioned, his voice little more than a murmur. "We are there?"

"Scouts have reported back to me saying that there is a clearing a mile to the south. The cave’s entrance is there," Calbenarth confirmed.

His hands trembling slightly, Gimli lifted his axe and closed his eyes, seeking to calm himself with the weight and feel of the weapon. It would soon be able to sever the heads of those who had taken his friends. It would be able to give them deliverance. It would be able to bring them into the light of day. "We must alert the others," Gimli whispered, his mind racing. "They must be brought here with all possible haste."

"My archers are already seeing to this," Calbenarth informed him coolly. "And they are patrolling the area in an attempt to root out any pockets of Orcs that might lie in ambush. Now I would ask that you follow me with as much stealth as you can muster, for we have discovered a place where our forces might gather ere the attack."

"And how long will it take to gather everyone together?" Gimli demanded, feeling an itch of impatience creep into his heart.

Calbenarth arched one delicate eyebrow that reminded Gimli very much of Legolas at his smuggest. "I cannot speak for the men of Gondor, but the elves understand the need for haste. They will be here quickly, of that you need have no fear. So I would advise against any rash action that might alert the Orcs to our presence. Our greatest advantage will lie in stealth and secrecy."

Gimli sighed and once again forced down his feelings of frustration toward elves in general and Mirkwood elves in particular. "Dwarves are not unfamiliar with stratagems, Master Elf. I will not reveal our position to the enemy."

"See that you do not," Calbenarth said, turning away and moving east. "Now come, Master Dwarf, for I would fain lend my efforts to those of my kin as we inform all of what has been discovered."

"Far be it from me to stand in your way," Gimli muttered, following the captain with some reluctance. Still, the dwarf could not truly find it within himself to be upset with this elf, for the excitement of what had happened still pounded in his blood. After two days of searching, they had done it. They had found the cave. Legolas was practically within arm’s grasp. They only needed to reach out and seize him. _Hold fast, my friend_ , Gimli thought, his hands still tight upon the haft of his axe. _We are nearly there. Only hold fast for a little longer, and then this shall all be behind us._

Gimli studiously ignored the hint of laughter that seemed to echo up from the shadows at this last thought.

* * * *

  


A gentle sigh, soft as the night breeze that had returned to rustle the leaves high overhead, brushed against Haldir’s cheek. "We should not linger."

  


One arm draped about his brother’s shoulders, Haldir drew Orophin tightly against his side and shook his head. "We shall not leave until you feel yourself ready."

  


"But what of you?" Orophin asked quietly. "What of your own grief? Why do we not wait until you are also ready?"

  


Despite the tears that lined his cheeks, Haldir smiled slightly. Orophin had indeed returned to him. That was exactly the kind of response to be expected from his youngest brother. "Fear not for me," he said. "I am well. I have dealt with grief before."

  


"Not under the influence of such a shadow."

  


"Nay, but now that I know to guard against it, I should not be troubled unduly."

  


Orophin nodded. "I take it that you feel yourself ready to travel and only wait for me."

  


"Do not concern yourself over such things," Haldir said gently. "Your welfare is my first priority. I would wait here until the passing of Ilúvatar’s song if it would aid me."

  


A silent chuckle shook Orophin’s shoulders. "I do not doubt it, Haldir," he murmured. "But I do not see how such a thing could possibly aid me. Nor do I see how any further waiting could aid me." He stood, pulling out of Haldir’s embrace, and his eyes surveyed the forest. "It is unsafe to linger any longer. Where now do we go, brother?"

  


Haldir grimaced and also stood. "I do not know," he confessed, running various options though his mind. "Perhaps we should return to Imladris and seek out Lord Celeborn. He doubtless knows of our absence. It would behoove us to seek him ere he seeks us. And in Imladris, we would be removed from the shadows that clouded our minds. It would be good for both of us."

  


"I suppose that returning is a wise decision," Orophin murmured. "Prudent, albeit cautious."

  


Haldir frowned. "Have you another suggestion?"

  


"Perhaps."

  


His concern beginning to mount, Haldir laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder and turned Orophin to face him. "Are you certain that you are well?"

  


"Are you?" Orophin asked, his eyes shadowed. "Are either of us?" He sighed and shook his head, continuing before Haldir could say aught. "An hour ago, I was not myself. Of that, there can be no doubt. But the thoughts that I had while possessed by madness contained pieces of wisdom. We are Marchwardens, Haldir. We are accomplished hunters and warriors." Orophin looked away from his brother, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I have never before shrunk from a challenge or a duty. I do not intend to begin now."

  


"Your duty lies in recovery," Haldir said, fear eating away at his heart. "Come, Orophin. Let us return and—"

  


"No. No, I see now what must be done." Orophin turned toward Haldir again, and though his eyes did not hold the desperate drive for vengeance that had shadowed him earlier, there was an earnestness present that unnerved Haldir. "Rúmil said something to me before we parted. He spoke of time and how fleeting it is, even to elves. And then he died. Do you see? He was right, Haldir. Time cannot be dismissed, and time is running out. We have an obligation to make the most of it, and I intend to do just that."

  


"Orophin, you are not making sense," Haldir argued. "We should return and—"

  


"Yes, we _should_ return," Orophin agreed. "But I will not. I cannot. Rúmil would continue onward. How can I do any less?"

  


"We discussed this!" Haldir said, his voice rising as frustration got the better of him. "You cannot replace Rúmil! You have no need to replace Rúmil!"

  


"I am not trying to replace him but rather trying to apply a lesson he taught me," Orophin answered, his eyes now set with determination. "Nor is this about vengeance, so do not think to argue that. This is about responsibility. We cannot be too far from those searching for the Orcs, and we have talents that could be put to good use. We have a duty to aid them, Haldir. And I will not refuse such a duty."

  


Haldir closed his eyes for a moment and took a step backwards away from his brother. Something was happening that he did not quite understand. This was unlike Orophin’s previous madness, yet even so, it was not the brother he had known and served with for centuries. Something in Rúmil’s death had wrought a change within Orophin, but Haldir could not determine whether or not this was a change for the better. "What do you propose?" he finally asked, sensing that his brother would not be swayed from his course.

  


"I propose that we continue to search for the trail. We search for the Orcs. We cannot be more than a mile or so east of the company, for in my journey here, I paralleled their course. Let us continue southward and veer to the west. Perhaps we might rejoin our kin."

  


"I do not see how this plan is any different from your previous suicidal objective," Haldir pointed out. "There are only two of us. We are vulnerable."

  


"This plan is different because I do not look to engage the Orcs. I look only to rejoin the main body of searchers and perhaps find clues that will help them along the way. Before, under the shadow of madness, I thought to battle every Orc I found and force myself through to their stronghold. That is no longer my desire," Orophin answered, his face grim. "But you are right; we are extremely vulnerable. And for this reason, I do not ask you to come with me. But my own mind is set. I cannot turn away from this. We are so close already. To turn back now…it defies everything I was ever taught. And time is still of the essence. I understand that now. Yet if you do not wish to accompany me…"

  


Closing his eyes for a moment, Haldir took a deep breath and then shook his head. "You know better than that," he murmured. "I would sooner fall upon my own sword than leave you alone in this darkness." He opened his eyes and looked around, watching the shadows beneath their tree intently. "Very well. We will turn southwest and attempt to find the other elves. But we will not engage the foe under any circumstances, and we will take every precaution available. Do I make myself clear on this, Orophin?"

  


"You do, and I would not think to argue against such counsel," Orophin said. "Rest assured that my intentions are only to scout. No skirmishes, no picking off stray Orcs, and no infiltrating the enemy’s camp. We are but eyes and ears for the forces of Lothlórien."

  


Haldir studied his brother for a long minute before letting out a quiet sigh. "If you are indeed intent on this, then let us go," he said quietly. "The sooner we start, the sooner we can find our kin." He moved back, eyed the limbs above him, and then leaped, pulling himself higher in the tree before moving south. "Stay in the upper branches," he cautioned. "There may be Orcs posted as guards in some of these trees. And should our plans go awry in any way, we will withdraw immediately! Is that understood?"

  


"I desire neither your death nor mine," Orophin answered. "Fear not, Haldir. I will follow your lead."

  


"As you followed my lead in returning to Rivendell?" Haldir asked caustically, carefully gauging the distance from his current branch to the limb of a neighboring tree.

  


"This is different," Orophin said.

  


"I fail to see the distinction," his brother muttered, gathering himself and making the leap into the next tree. "However, since I cannot alter your mind, let us cease this talk and be silent. But know that I will not hesitate to force a retreat if you fight me on anything else. We are risking much as it is."

  


"As of now, your word is law," Orophin promised.

  
__

I wish I could believe that, Haldir sighed, but he said nothing as they continued forward. And so the two vanished southwards in the night, leaving no mark of their passage and no hint of their coming.

 

  


 

  


 

  
__

Nogoth—Dwarf (with the connotation of being stunted) 


	27. The Last Debates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

"Do you see it now? It sits among that jumble of rocks where the land rises on the clearing’s edge."  


His eyes narrowed into slits, Aragorn tightened his grip on the branches around him and leaned forward, attempting to get a better view. There were times in his life when he fervently cursed his mortal sight, and this was turning into one of those times. Elrohir had extended his arm and was pointing toward the indicated rocks, but Aragorn’s eyes simply did not work as well in the darkness as the eyes of his foster brother. With his limited sight, he could dimly see Orc guards moving back and forth in a patrol pattern of some kind, he could make out large shapes that were probably boulders, and he could almost discern the steep rise of the land behind these stones. But he still could not see…

  


Wait! Was that…? Yes, it was. Now he saw it. An Orc had just appeared among the rocks, and as Aragorn had kept careful track of all the Orcs he could see, he knew this particular soldier had not been out and about earlier. That was where the cave’s entrance lay. He still could not see the entrance itself as the elves could, but he now knew its precise location. "I have found it," he whispered to his companion.

  


"Praise the Valar," Elrohir muttered, his voice barely louder than a sigh. "Then let us go. I fear we have lingered here too long already. Come. But move carefully! Step only where I step. There are Orcs about, and they may have caught our scent. Some are growing agitated."

  


"They know we are here," Aragorn murmured, glancing down. Once in a while, a flicker of starlight would glance off a rusty helm or a battered blade, indicating the presence of an Orc, but aside from these few glimpses, he could see almost nothing of the ground below. Still, he knew better than to second-guess Elrohir, and he could hear quiet movements as Orcs passed beneath them.

  


"Estel! Come!"

  


Elrohir’s hiss drew Aragorn’s attention away from the Orcs, and he shook his head as he freed his mind from distraction, stepping away slowly and mirroring the other’s movements. "If they begin a search pattern, they will find the men upon the ground," Aragorn whispered, following Elrohir through the trees.

  


"Thranduil has a line of scouts set up that will provide a distraction should the Orcs venture too close. And our forces are located almost a full mile from the cave’s entrance," Elrohir answered, picking up his pace slightly as they moved further away. "We should be able to last the few hours of darkness remaining to us."

  


"Unless Gimli and Pippin give us away so as to start the battle early," Aragorn said softly.

  


A quiet chuckle answered this, though the mirth seemed forced. "We shall keep them occupied. There is still strategy to set and final positions to be assigned."

  


"Even so, they are not pleased with this delay," Aragorn whispered. "And I must confess that I agree with them."

  


"The power of the Orcs is greatest now," Elrohir reminded his foster brother, "while the power of the elves wanes. We must wait until dawn or else we shall suffer many casualties. The difference of a few hours is negligible, particularly when those few hours will be spent making plans and moving companies about. Were we to rush this confrontation with minimal preparation, it is doubtful that we could be fully underway before first light."

  


"Even so, the idea that we tarry while our friends lie in darkness is a difficult thing to stomach," Aragorn sighed.

  


"I know, Estel," Elrohir answered quietly. "I like this no better than do you."

  


They continued in silence, then, moving as phantoms through the trees. The shadows seemed to lift slightly as they put distance between themselves and the cave’s entrance, making it easier for Aragorn to follow Elrohir’s steps. The number of Orcs also decreased, which meant caution gradually gave way to haste, and after a time, they were taking little care to muffle the sounds of their movements. Eventually, Elrohir dropped out of the trees and signaled Aragorn to follow.

  


"You might not have seen them, but we have just passed the first line of Thranduil’s archers," Elrohir explained as Aragorn joined him in the rolling shadows. "We should be safe upon the ground now. Come!"

  


"Second line," Aragorn murmured, hurrying after the other as Elrohir broke into a run.

  


"Pardon?"

  


"That was the second line of archers. We passed the first line several minutes ago," Aragorn explained, struggling to keep his face impassive.

  


Elrohir blinked. "How do you know?"

  


"I saw the outline of an elven bow."

  


Until now, Aragorn had not believed it possible to go completely still while running. Elrohir’s reaction forced him to revise his thinking. He did not know how his foster brother did it, but somehow, Elrohir managed to give the perception of motionless shock without breaking stride. It was rather impressive, actually, and had circumstances been different, Aragorn would have tried to startle Elrohir into doing it again.

  


"If it assuages your pride, I did not see any sign of the second archer group," Aragorn offered, now unable to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching. "And I only saw the first group because a bow moved off to my left, drawing my attention to it."

  


Elrohir shook his head darkly. "I should have been more alert."

  


"Mirkwood’s forces excel at secrecy," Aragorn said. "It is a wonder that either of us saw anything."

  


"Perhaps." Elrohir suddenly slowed and lifted his head, his eyes narrowing. "This way," he said, changing direction. "Elladan and the others are over here. I can hear them."

  


"Are all gathered?"

  


"I do not know. I cannot hear King Thranduil, but he may simply be holding his peace."

  


"He has been unusually quiet of late," Aragorn murmured.

  


"Nay, the rest of us have been unusually argumentative," Elrohir countered with a shake of his head. "Thranduil has been silent from time to time, but no more so than usual. Yet it is difficult for the rest of us to see that. We have been affected by these fell shadows. Thranduil has more or less remained constant."

  


Aragorn frowned. He had known that the darkness had influenced his thoughts to an extent, yet Elrohir was implying that a severe change had taken place. But surely they would have all felt such a change long before now. Wouldn’t they? Walking his mind back through recent events and comparing them to previous experiences with Thranduil, Aragorn tried to look at everything with completely objective eyes. And as he examined past situations, also including Celeborn and his foster brothers in his musings, it became rather clear that Elrohir was right. Thranduil has not changed. At least, not significantly so. Yet during the past day, an unusual streak of belligerence and unrest had characterized Aragorn’s actions, but until now, he had been unaware of how bad it had become. "You are correct," Gondor’s king said at length, his brow furrowed. "We have changed. We have argued, and we have fought one another more than is normal for us. How is it that we did not see this?"

  


"Because we were in the midst of it," Elrohir said. "I only realized what had happened because Lord Celeborn pointed it out to me when we separated to search for a cave. He cautioned me to watch my thoughts as they had gone far astray of their usual course. Since then, I have watched and listened closely." Elrohir paused, his face turning toward Aragorn as they hurried through the darkness. "We are not the only ones so stricken, Estel. The elves of Mirkwood and most of the Galadhrim are handling it well, but the rest of our forces are suffering. When morning comes and our attack commences, we will not be at full strength."

  


"I cannot say that this surprises me," Aragorn murmured. "I knew that the men and elves had been affected, but I did not think on how it might impact the battle. And that is the first thing I should have considered." He shook his head, wondering at this serious lapse in judgement. "Elrohir, what has happened?"

  


"That I cannot say, but I would see that it does not happen again. To either of us." He fell silent and then slowed to a walk. Aragorn checked his pace and watched his brother as Elrohir’s eyes searched the darkness. "Elladan?"

  


"Here," a voice answered, and Elrohir stepped off to the left and pushed aside a thick curtain of leaves, revealing a small hollow sheltered by closely-knit trees. "King Thranduil and Lord Celeborn are with me," Elladan called. "We have been waiting for you."

  


"Have all seen the layout of the area?" Elrohir asked, holding the leaves back as Aragorn entered behind him.

  


"All except the hobbits and Gimli," Elladan answered quietly with a slight frown. Judging from the note of hesitation in his voice, this had been a subject of some controversy. Aragorn had been one of the last to go forward and survey the clearing where they would fight come morning, and he remembered well the protests from Gimli and Pippin about being left behind. He wondered how long the dwarf and hobbit had continued to voice their objections or what other argument had ensued because of it, but the matter could not have been helped. There were too many Orcs upon the ground for the pair to risk getting close enough to see the area, and taking the dwarf up into the trees had not been even a remote possibility.

  


Thinking that perhaps a sympathetic word or two was in order, Aragorn looked around for Gimli and Pippin, but to his surprise, he could not find them anywhere and Sam was also missing. "Where are they?" he asked, fervently praying that the elves had done nothing rash.

  


"They are safe," Elladan answered quickly, appearing to have guessed his brother’s fears. "I sent them to join your own forces."

  


"I cannot imagine that they went quietly," Elrohir remarked somewhat suspiciously.

  


"They did not," Thranduil muttered from behind Elladan, his eyes seeming to flash with impatience. "It required a certain amount of persuasion."

  


"Persuasion involving threats," Celeborn added with a dark look at his kinsman.

  


"Their arguments were in no way constructive to our objectives, and our current discussion is taking a similar turn," Thranduil said sharply. "We must concentrate upon setting the strategy. There is no time for anything else."

  


For a moment, Aragorn was sorely tempted to debate the matter further. There was little love lost between the king of Gondor and the king of Mirkwood, and Thranduil’s abrupt, superior manner had always managed to rub Aragorn the wrong way. But fortunately for all involved, common sense prevailed and Aragorn took a deep, calming breath. He would deal with Thranduil’s version of diplomacy another time. "King Thranduil is correct," Aragorn said, collecting his thoughts and calling to mind all his experiences in battles alongside elves. "We must now look to the coming attack and determine our priorities. Our primary objective is the rescue of the captives, but we are also in a position to destroy a large infestation of Orcs. Do we wish to completely close the noose upon these creatures or shall we leave them a venue of escape?"

  


"Have we forces enough to surround them?" Celeborn asked, his eyes skeptical.

  


"The rise behind the cave is steep, but not so steep as to prevent escape if the Orcs are determined," Thranduil said. "However, a group of archers positioned in the trees above the entrance where the land evens should be sufficient to cut down any that flee. Unless we require all our forces for a frontal assault, it is not beyond our ability to encircle them."

  


"I do not think I understand," Elladan said slowly, his face strangely blank. "What rise do you speak of? The cave’s entrance was set against the side of a cliff. The Orcs would not be able to climb it without the aid of ropes."

  


Aragorn frowned and Elrohir shifted uncomfortably beside him. "It was not a cliff, brother, but a rather steep slope. It would be manageable to those on foot," the younger of the twins said.

  


"Nay, it was a cliff!" Elladan insisted. He turned to Celeborn and Thranduil, his eyes beseeching. "We saw it together. It was a cliff."

  


Celeborn shook his head slowly. "There was no cliff, Elladan. The entrance was set at the base of a rise in the ground."

  


"It could not have been! The tunnel that leads to the entrance is nearly horizontal!"

  


"Did you see the same cave that we saw?" Thranduil questioned. His voice was devoid of emotion, but a ripple of uncertainty crossed his face. "There were rocks jutting up about it and Orcs patrolled in groups of eight, passing before the entrance every minute or so."

  


"Yes, I saw what you saw," Elladan said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But I tell you that this rise must be a cliff. The tunnel just inside the entrance is level. It does not climb to find an entrance but rather meets it on a straight path!"

  


"Elladan, how do you know this? How do you know what lies inside?" Celeborn questioned, placing a gentle but firm hand on his grandson’s shoulder.

  


"Because I have seen it! I have seen the inside!" As though feeling constrained, Elladan pulled away from Celeborn and started to pace, something that deeply frightened the king of Gondor. Upon rare occasions, he had seen Elrohir pace, for the younger twin had not been gifted with Elrond’s patience but rather had inherited Celebrían’s boldness. But Aragorn had _never_ seen Elladan pace, and the current display of unchanneled, restless energy was far more unnerving than the omnipresent darkness.

  


"When, Elladan?" Celeborn pressed as his grandson continued to pace. "When did you see it?"

  


"I…I do not remember…"

  


"Try!" Thranduil now stepped in front of Elladan, stopping his pacing. "Try to remember when you saw the inside of the cave."

  


"I cannot…I do not…" Elladan trailed off, his expression one of consternation. A sudden chill swept Aragorn’s mind, and he glanced down to find that the darkened shadows about his feet had gained life and energy. 

  


"Elladan?" Elrohir prompted, his voice laced with an ill-contained note of fear.

  


"Elladan, when we were waiting to be joined by those from Imladris, you suggested that you had seen a cave in darkness," Thranduil said, his piercing eyes fixed upon Elrond’s oldest son. "Are you now speaking of the same cave?"

  


"In darkness…a cave," Elladan whispered. His hands went to his face and he began massaging his temples. "Yes. Yes, that was it. A cave in darkness. I saw it. Two days ago, I saw it."

  


Aragorn shook his head, feeling that confusion and anxiety could go no further. "What are you—"

  


"Estel, do you remember when we were first beset by Orcs upon this trail?" Elladan asked, his eyes filled with a strange light. "You were there as well, Elrohir," he continued, not waiting for a response. "I collapsed, and you took me into the trees. I know not what happened to the rest of you during the time of my unconsciousness, but as for me, the darkness…spoke."

  


"Spoke?" Elrohir repeated slowly as a shiver crawled up Aragorn’s spine.

  


"Yes," Elladan nodded, his gaze turning inward. "It was strange, and I could not understand what it said. But at the same time, even though I did not understand, I knew. I knew what it wished to say. And it was forceful. Almost impossible to resist."

  


"I remember your collapse," Aragorn said softly, his mind now clicking rapidly. "When you woke, you said things about darkness, and you did mention…caverns, I think it was. But we did not know what to make of your words."

  


"We still do not know," Elrohir added, moving closer to his twin.

  


"Then listen and understand now!" Elladan cried, his tone colored by rising frustration. "While I was unconscious, the darkness took me elsewhere, and I saw the entrance to a cave. Or…or the exit, rather, for I was within the cavern. Orcs were behind me, and I heard voices speaking in a language I could not understand. And this cave had to have been set in the face of a cliff! The tunnel that ran to its entrance was too level and too straight to be anything else!"

  


"A dream, Elladan," Elrohir said rapidly, catching his brother by the shoulders. "An ill dream brought on by the shadows."

  


"Nay! It was no dream!" Elladan cried, causing the others to wince as the silence around them shattered. "I know what I saw. I was there!"

  


"But the cave we have found is nothing like the cave you claim to have seen," Aragorn protested. "It was but a trick of the mind. It could be nothing else!"

  


"There could be more than one entrance to the caverns," Celeborn said. "Indeed, such a thing would be very likely. Even if there were no natural alternative exits, the Orcs would create some. Elladan may have seen another way into the Orcs’ stronghold."

  


"And it seems that Elladan also became privy to whatever instructions and thoughts that the darkness encouraged," Thranduil said quietly.

  


"That was also my thought," Celeborn agreed.

  


"A moment!" Elrohir broke in angrily, still holding Elladan firmly by the shoulders. "What does this mean? What has happened to my brother?"

  


"Exactly what did you see?" Thranduil demanded, turning his attention to Elladan and ignoring Elrohir’s frantic questions. "And what did the darkness tell you? We must have details!"

  


Elrohir’s eyes flared. "Until we begin to hear explanations, Elladan is under no obligation to—"

  


"Peace," Elladan whispered, pulling away from his twin and shaking his head slightly. "Peace, they are right. I did not remember until now. At least, not really. There were…glimpses. Things I instinctively knew. But as for details…I had forgotten. Somehow, I had forgotten what I had seen and when I had seen it. But they are right. I was there. I was in the caves. Perhaps…perhaps that is why I was so quick to believe you, Lord Celeborn, when you revealed your suspicions as to what is happening to our friends."

  


"But what is happening to _you_?" Aragorn demanded, not about to forego the pursuit of at least some kind of explanation.

  


"At the moment, naught. But two days ago…" Elladan trailed off and sighed. "I do not know if I can give you the details you desire, King Thranduil. My memories are confused. It is as though what I felt and saw makes no sense outside the cave. I…I do not think I was ready to leave the caverns. The time had not yet come, and so that which was told to me has no significance here." He shook his head. "But I do not understand what that means."

  


"It is probably best that you do not. Any further and the darkness might have taken you completely," Celeborn murmured with a shake of his head, sounding as though he spoke more to himself than to anyone else. "Elbereth! You were not even the direct target of the attack. If our opponent’s strength is so potent when unfocused…"

  


"Such thoughts can wait until the prisoners are freed," Thranduil said sharply. His voice had become hard, and within his eyes was a growing fire of rage powerful enough to discourage a charging pack of Wargs. "It is clear now that the foe we face holds more power than we suspected. I would not have believed that he could unintentionally draw another into his clutches at such a distance, but it seems that such is the case. Our attack must be planned with greater care than ever, and we must now turn our focus upon our strategy."

  


"But Elladan—"

  


"Elladan is safe," Thranduil interrupted Elrohir, his voice suddenly dropping in both volume and intensity. Deep, gray eyes swept across the twins and then rested upon Aragorn, drawing them into a powerful gaze that was stern yet at the same time strangely reassuring. "Peace, all of you," Thranduil said. "I sense no more darkness in Elladan’s mind than that which I sense in all of us. He has recovered. So long as he does not expose himself to the shadows as he did while searching for a trail, I believe he will be well." The tone within Thranduil’s voice changed then, resuming its hard impatience. "And now we must see that the prisoners are also given a chance to recover."

  


For a moment, no one spoke and silence fell over the group. At length, though, Elrohir sighed and nodded. "You and I are in need of a long talk," he told his brother firmly, his eyes narrow. "But King Thranduil is right," Elrohir continued, turning toward the others. "We must now turn our minds to other things."

  


Vowing to be present for this _talk_ between the twins, Aragorn nodded his reluctant agreement. "Then let us turn our minds to strategy and the coming morn. We have yet to decide whether or not we should seek to eliminate the Orcs completely or if we would be better served by allowing them a venue of escape. If they sense they are trapped, the fighting will be fiercer and the rescue delayed. But if we allow them to escape, we invite further attacks in the future."

  


"If we allow the Orcs to escape, they may take Legolas and Merry with them," Elrohir warned. "We cannot afford a second chase. Too much time has already elapsed."

  


"If Elladan is correct, there is already a venue of escape," Celeborn said quietly. "The caverns have other exits, and since we do not know where these exits lie, we will be unable to block them. Still, we could certainly cut off any Orcs outside the caverns. And as for the prisoners, I do not believe that they will be taken elsewhere. It would do no good at this point in time."

  


Beside Elrohir, Elladan seemed to shudder slightly at this, and his eyes became vacant, as though lost in memory. Aragorn frowned and opened his mouth to question his foster brother, but Thranduil began speaking of placing a hidden line of archers on one side of the clearing and Aragorn was drawn back into the conversation. Elrohir agreed to this suggestion while Celeborn recommended that these archers be placed in the trees on the far side of the clearing so that they might have the advantage of the high ground if the Orcs chose to flee up the rise.

  


Intent upon their debate, no one noticed Elladan slowly withdrawing from the group, his eyes glazing over and his hands clenching fiercely at his sides.

  


* * * *

  


The Orcs were growing in number.

  


For the last hour or so, Orophin had been keenly aware of their presence, as well as the fact that the foul beasts were now everywhere. He had yet to actually see any and his elven hearing had detected no sounds that might betray the presence of his foes, but they were about. He had guarded Lothlórien’s borders for far too long to ever forget the feel of their dark taint upon the fair forests of Arda. They were here and in great number.

  


A quiet exhalation of breath from behind accompanied by a light touch upon Orophin’s arm stopped the elf, and he looked back as his brother cast a wary glance toward the ground. Motionless for but a moment as he evaluated their surroundings, Haldir then jerked his head to the side, indicating that they should separate for a moment and scout the area. Nodding, Orophin placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder and their eyes met briefly before both turned away.

  


Climbing soundlessly through the trees, his eyes trained upon the ground below, Orophin reflected on how quickly routine had taken control of their actions. With a speed that was almost frightening, Haldir and Orophin had both fallen back upon old patterns of hunting and stalking. It was familiar and comforting at the same time that it prodded the grief that surged just below the surface. With every silent signal and every look, Orophin could not help but remember that there were only two Marchwardens on this hunt instead of three. One was missing.

  


Slight changes in the routine further emphasized this fact. Haldir was far more protective than he’d ever been before. As the oldest of the three brothers, Haldir had always insisted that they take a few more precautions than were probably necessary. But now, Haldir was carrying his protective duty almost too far. Their scouting trips to the east and west had been so frequent that they had almost stopped moving south. And more often than not, these scouting trips were done together rather than separately, further increasing the delay and severely trying Orophin’s patience.

  


Not that Orophin didn’t understand Haldir’s need for these precautions. On the contrary, he understood the need all too well. Their current trek southward was against Haldir’s better judgement. Rúmil’s death had reminded Haldir of the unsettling fact that his brothers were vulnerable. The trio had a nearly flawless record in defending the western borders of Lothlórien, but they were not invincible, as Rúmil’s passing had so harshly proven. Orophin’s life could be taken just as quickly as Rúmil’s life had been, and Haldir intended to make sure that such a thing did not happen. Thus, he continued to order an unusual number of scouting trips so as to ensure that there was naught in the way of pursuit from behind and no ambushes on either side to waylay their steps. And though he chafed at their slow progress, Orophin continued to submit to his brother’s wishes in this for two reasons: First, Haldir was older and technically in command. Second, Orophin was also undergoing a change, and if Haldir was to make allowances for his younger brother, then Orophin needed to make allowances for Haldir.

  


Ever since he became a Marchwarden and joined Rúmil and Haldir upon the borders, Orophin had been the brother who hung back. He was fearless in battle and never hesitated if the situation required immediate action, but if there was time to stop and consider what was happening, Orophin did so. It was something that had greatly tormented Rúmil, for Rúmil had firmly believed that surprise and swiftness were the best advantages. Pondering could be done while one was attacking. And though he was not nearly as bold as Rúmil, even Haldir had occasionally expressed frustration over Orophin’s incessant need to step back and evaluate the situation.

  


But things were different now. Orophin did not wish to tarry and evaluate but rather to move forward and strike. He was no longer under the influence of the darkness; he was fairly certain of that. Through Haldir’s words, Orophin had realized that his grief over Rúmil’s passing had transformed itself into an obsession for vengeance and death. Whether or not he—or anyone else—survived his mad quest for retribution had been completely beside the point. The only thing that truly mattered was destroying those that had destroyed his brother.

  


Thanks to Haldir, Orophin had overcome that desire. He had pressed the darkness to one side. It lingered still, for he was yet in its presence, but naught could be done about that. And Orophin was taking care that his grief did not overcome his common sense. Yet even so, this _common sense_ was altered now. Rúmil’s death had started a change within patient Orophin. He had discovered that time was a fleeting thing, even for elves. The seconds it took to back away from a situation were precious. They were to be hoarded and only spent when necessary. Indeed, Orophin’s newfound awareness of time had grown so acute that almost it bordered on mortal awareness. And because of this, Orophin could not return to Rivendell, as Haldir had suggested. He could not forego this search for the Orcs. Time was critical. And Orophin intended to make the most of it.

  


The great irony in all this was that he was currently allowing Haldir to divert much of their precious time into precautionary scouting trips. Still, at least Haldir had not insisted that they return. He had allowed Orophin to continue the pursuit, and because of this, Orophin felt that some sacrifices had to be made. But time was slipping away, and Orophin was growing anxious. He would tolerate a few more delays for Haldir’s sake, but his patience was beginning to wear thin. They needed to move faster.

  


A gentle breeze suddenly tossed the branches in front of Orophin, causing him to step back for a moment before deciding to climb higher. Raising his head, Orophin took a deep breath of fresh air as the wind drifted out of the east, away from the looming shadows of the Misty Mountains. Far away in the north, clouds were beginning to loom, possibly heralding a spring storm, but directly overhead, the skies were clear and the stars were bright.

  
__

A pity the light of the stars seems not to touch the ground below, Orophin thought bitterly. _For then perhaps Haldir would not feel the need to stop so often. Uninhibited sight would give us a better idea of where the Orcs might hide._

  


Continuing his journey upward through the branches, Orophin eventually emerged above the canopy of the trees, lifting his face to the sky and drinking in the glow of Elbereth’s stars. The aching grief in his heart eased a bit and he loosed a tired sigh, feeling the eastern breeze wash over him. For a moment he was still, allowing the ageless stars to whisper words of peace and solace. But then his newfound sense of time began to prick at his mind, and he dropped his gaze, turning his eyes toward the forest. Solace and comfort could wait. There were more important things to tend to.

  


A quick search of his surroundings revealed that he could see very little of the ground while this high, so he began to descend before he was stopped by a shadow out of the corner of his eye. His brow furrowing, Orophin turned and traced the line of the horizon directly to the south. Where the sky met the ground, he could make out what appeared to be a ridgeline. A cliff, of some sort. And though an acute awareness of time continued to press upon him, Orophin could not help but stop to consider this.

  


The Orcs they trailed were led by one powerful enough to conceal their tracks. A leader did not gain such power unless he was cunning and intelligent. Would such a gifted captain establish a base camp under the trees? Nay, he would seek better cover, for he would have to expect that elves would be quick to follow him. He would seek shelter away from trees and subsequently away from a possible elven ambush. He would look for rocky ground, and if possible, he would conceal himself in a cave.

  


Orophin did not know much about caverns and rocks, for he had spent almost his entire life beneath the leaves of Lothlórien. But he did know that cliffs and rocky outcroppings sometimes held entrances to caves and tunnels. And if he was leading these Orcs, he would have already established a base in such an area.

  
__

That is where we must go, then, Orophin thought, a faint glimmer of hope entering his mind. _We must press toward the cliffs and seek for caves. It is likely that we will find the other searchers there, and even if we do not, it is likely that we will find the main body of Orcs. Either way, we accomplish much._

  


"Orophin!"

  


The harried whisper came from somewhere below him, and Orophin glanced down in time to catch sight of flashing gray eyes as his older brother glared up at him through the slightly swaying branches. "Haldir?"

  


"Why didn’t you rendezvous with me?!" the other elf hissed.

  


Orophin frowned. "You failed to specify a time for our rendezvous," he whispered. "I did not know the scouting trip was to be such a short one."

  


"There are only two of us here!" Haldir snapped, his voice rising momentarily before he controlled himself and lowered his tone. "We cannot afford to take extended scouting trips. It is too dangerous, and there are too many Orcs about!"

  


Orophin pressed his lips together, wondering if he should point out that erring too much on the side of caution was sometimes just as disastrous as ignoring caution altogether, but the constraints of time would not allow him to do so. Instead he turned away and studied the faint outline of cliffs, motioning Haldir to climb up and join him. "Tell me what you see against the horizon to the south," he said quietly.

  


With a quiet noise that seemed to be a frustrated grunt, Haldir moved upward through the branches and was soon beside his brother, staring into the south. "Cliffs, I believe," he murmured. The older elf was silent for a moment, and then Orophin felt Haldir turn toward him. "It is very likely that these Orcs will have taken refuge in caves."

  


Orophin nodded, glancing over at his brother. "That was also my thought."

  


"If we are right, the other searchers will probably be there, for they will have come to this conclusion as well. They will have sought out the cliffs. But…" Haldir trailed off, his eyes becoming blank for a moment. At length he shook his head, his face troubled. "I do not sense other elves."

  


"Perhaps this darkness cloaks their presence," Orophin offered.

  


Haldir frowned. "Perhaps, but I do not think so. If anything, it should be easier to feel them near, for they would be a stark contrast to this fell shadow."

  


A stab of frustration shot through Orophin’s mind. He could sense where this was leading. Haldir was going to urge for even more caution since they probably approached the Orcs’ stronghold and no other elves seemed to be about. But too much time had already been spent on caution. There was no more time left for prudence and safety. They had to act quickly and they had to act now. The time for indulging Haldir’s protectiveness was over.

  


"Then if we are indeed the only ones close enough to be of service, let us go," Orophin said firmly, his eyes intent upon his brother’s face. "There has already been too much delay. We must press forward."

  


"Nay," Haldir said sharply, and his eyes became hard with stubbornness. "Nay, we will not rush to our deaths."

  


"I did not say we should," Orophin answered, trying to quell the impatience that was beginning to build. "But we must do something. At the very least, we must draw closer and analyze the situation. We must seek out the guards and the patrols. We must gather information, and if there is an opportunity to act, we must take it."

  


Haldir shook his head. "It is too dangerous," he murmured. "We are only two. We need more. We must return for help and—"

  


"There is no time!" Orophin hissed. "Haldir, we have delayed long enough. This is not what we were trained to do. When I took my oath to guard Lothlórien, I swore to do everything in my power to thwart the Enemy in every way possible. I intend to keep that vow, and I would have you keep it as well, for I know that you once made the same promise. Let us honor our rank as Marchwardens. Let us honor the days when we would challenge danger, no matter how overwhelming the odds." He lowered his voice and placed a hand upon his brother’s arm. "Let us honor Rúmil’s memory. He would not have us skulk about in the shadows."

  


Beneath his touch, Orophin felt Haldir shudder, and then hands seized his shoulders, clutching him tightly and drawing him close. Haldir’s brow came to rest upon Orophin’s, and the grip upon his shoulders tightened. "I would not lose you as well," Haldir whispered.

  


His breath catching in his throat, Orophin reached up and placed one arm on the back of Haldir’s head, locking them together. "And I would not lose you," he answered. "But we must go, Haldir. We must. Our duty demands it."

  


"I know," his brother said, his voice so soft that even Orophin’s sharp ears had trouble making out the words. "I know. And we are ever the dutiful elves, are we not?" He shuddered again and then withdrew, releasing Orophin and smiling sadly. "You are right. We must go. But," Haldir added, his face becoming stern, "we must still be cautious. And if we are not given a chance to act against the Orcs, we must go for help. We cannot afford to make our own opportunities. We have neither the numbers nor the strength."

  


"I will readily agree to that," Orophin said, relieved that Haldir had consented to a slightly more aggressive plan. "But no more scouting trips to the side. The Orcs are here. We both know that. We need not scout the darkness to find them. I am certain that we will find Orcs aplenty soon enough."

  


"I fear you speak the truth," Haldir sighed. He shook his head and stared toward the south before turning away and starting his descent into the lower branches. "Let us get on with this, then. Keep your bow handy, and stay close."

  


"See that you do the same," Orophin whispered, climbing down after his brother.

  


Ahead of him, Haldir nodded once and then they fell into silence. Carefully walking the line between the stars above and the darkness below, Haldir and Orophin worked their way southwards, drawing ever closer to the shadow of the cliffs. And as they went, the feeling of Orcs and of evil grew stronger and stronger.

  


* * * *

  


"If we are careful, it is my judgement that we have forces enough to surround and engage all of the Orcs. And I would recommend such a course of action."

  


"Resistance will be fiercer if the Orcs feel they cannot retreat. We may suffer heavy casualties."

  


"If the archers above the rise remain hidden, the Orcs will believe there is still a chance for escape above ground. It will not be immediately apparent that they are surrounded, and this would significantly ease pressure on the forward units."

  


The voices rushed around Elladan like the waves of the sea, crashing against one another in a chaotic swirl that made little sense to the one drowning in their midst. Many centuries ago, Elrond’s sons had spent a summer in Mithlond with Círdan, and during this time of countless new experiences, both twins had learned the dangers of a strong undertow when swimming in the bay. Elladan now felt as though he had been caught in such a current and swept away, buried deep beneath the sea’s tides without hope of escape or rescue. Elladan could still hear those around him. He was not completely cut off from the debate of arms and strategies. But his mind refused to concentrate, choosing instead to race back over things that had suddenly become clear to him. Things that he had forgotten but now remembered. Things that had locked themselves somewhere deep within his mind but now rose to trouble his thoughts.

  


"You said it was essential that we kill the agent behind all of this."

  


"And so we must, but once we cut off the head, the death throes of the body will be violent. The Orcs may forget their orders and kill the prisoners outright."

  


Elladan saw a light. A circle of light, though the circle was not quite a perfect circle. Yet it was beautiful, despite its imperfections. From somewhere deep inside Elladan’s being came a yearning to draw near this circle and shake off the shadows that clung to him like a shroud. It was a symbol of escape and freedom. It was a way out of the dark caverns that he knew lay behind him. It was his chance to slip the clutches of his enemy and destroy whatever plans revolved around him.

  


"If the rescue party waits with the archers above the rise, we could draw the attention of the main body away and allow them a moment to slip inside."

  


"I will lend support to that plan. And I will add the counsel that the hobbits and Gimli be a part of that rescue group. Their minds have not been as clouded by darkness as ours. They will last longer in the caves."

  


"Gimli, at least, should certainly be there. A dwarf will not be so easily confused by the twists and turns of winding tunnels."

  


But he could not move. He could not leave. Something prevented him. Something daunted his senses and ordered him away from the light. And as a dark force continued to order him back, a cloud of fear crashed over Elladan. The force came from within. Something inside of his mind could not bear the light. Nor was this something a foreign influence. Rather, it had always been a part of him and had now been given voice.

  


"If they are to slip secretly into the caverns, they cannot be many in number. Yet they may meet with resistance, and they will have need of strong warriors."

  


"Let us determine the numbers and types after we have settled other strategies. We have yet to plan the initial assault, and what we do there will determine what the rescue party will face."

  


Or perhaps it had always had a voice, but he had never heeded it until that moment. Perhaps it had been forever growing as the years passed by and the Orcs grew closer and closer to Rivendell. Perhaps it had now been strengthened to the point where he could no longer refuse the voice. And though he tried to resist, the darkness within him shifted and molded, anticipating his defenses and swiftly battering through them as quickly as they were constructed.

  


"We have no time to develop anything elaborate! Simple must suffice!"

  


Elladan could no longer look at the light. To look was to see that which was unattainable, for he could not escape. He could not leave. And beyond that, the force within his mind hated the light. The light was to be shunned at all possible costs. It was something to be loathed and feared. The darkness was what had to be embraced, for it was from the darkness that healing had come. It was the darkness that had saved him. It was the darkness that had claim over his life. In the end, it was a simple thing. Light and fire had harmed him. Shadows had brought him back.

  


"If the initial assault group retreats completely into the forest before stopping to fight, we could also strike at the Orcs from above them and lure them into the trees."

  


"Nay, we must keep the Orcs upon the ground. My own forces cannot fight them in the trees. If you wish for Gondor’s strength, you will have to accommodate our limitations."

  


"Rivendell is also strongest upon the ground. And it seems to me that if can keep the Orcs from ascending into the trees, it will simplify the battle. There is less risk of sudden ambush during the latter stages of the attack."

  


Elladan could not remember Rivendell. He could not remember Elrohir. He could not remember Arwen, Estel, or his father and mother. He could not remember Glorfindel and Erestor. He had a vague notion that these people existed, but they had become altered in his mind. They were different now. Strange. Foreign. He had little concept of familiarity. He could not remember interacting with these people. It was as though they had become figures in a story, distant and remote. They could be molded and shaped depending upon how the story was depicted. They could be changed.

  


"Then the forces of Lothlórien and Greenwood should separate and stand on either side of Rivendell and Gondor. They shall deploy archers into the trees as well as whatever forces they see fit to place upon the ground. A group from Rivendell can launch the initial attack and retreat to the trees on the near side of the clearing, whereupon the rest of our forces as well as Gondor’s men can join us."

  


"I would not have Rivendell bear the first assault alone. My men can join you."

  


"I welcome the gesture, but the Orcs will be more intent upon battle if they fight elves rather than men."

  


The shadows seemed to be receding now, and the voices around Elladan had become clearer. It was easier to hear their words though it was still difficult to follow their speech. The darkness within him began to fade into the background as though some purpose or other had been accomplished. Seeing his chance for freedom, Elladan gathered his strength and began to struggle away from the shadows. But the circle of light had disappeared. It could no longer be found. His road to escape had vanished.

  


"I will go."

  


"Into the caves?"

  


"That is what we are now discussing, is it not?"

  


"Lord Celeborn, your archers—"

  


"Are well accustomed to operating on their own initiative."

  


The soft murmur of trees and plants suddenly caught Elladan’s attention as the shadows faded into a whisper on the edge of his mind. His breath hitching slightly, he realized that there was no need for escape. He was already free. He was not trapped beneath the ground but rather standing in a forest. And yet… Why did he still feel that something was amiss? Why did he still feel the need to flee? There seemed to be a quiet chuckle as the darkness faded away completely, and then Elladan’s eyes cleared, revealing the hollow, the night, the forest, his companions, and the shadows upon the ground.

  


"If any here claim a right to venture into the caves with the rescue party, I think it would be me," Thranduil was saying, his voice soft but cool.

  


"Under other circumstances, I might agree with you," Celeborn answered. "But I have a better idea of what to expect, and I am better equipped to deal with whatever we might face. Moreover, I am not as close to the situation as you are. My thoughts will be clearer."

  


"You question my judgement?" Thranduil demanded.

  


"Yes," Celeborn answered calmly, his eyes firm as he met Thranduil’s challenging glare. "I question the judgement of all who have labored beneath these shadows. And though you may have had more experience with such things, you are certainly not immune."

  


It was too much for Elladan. Suddenly thrust from the abstract into concrete reality, his mind struggled valiantly to make sense of all that was happening, but he could not reconcile what had just happened with was currently happening. The two worlds could not exist together. Stumbling and wheeling, he grabbed the closest thing he could reach—which happened to be Elrohir—and desperately tried to stay upright.

  


"Elladan?"

  


Elladan wanted to answer his brother, but he feared that if he broke his concentration, he would lose himself. He was barely staying on his feet as it was, and his mind seemed to be falling away.

  


"Elladan!"

  


Hands were upon him, clutching at his shoulders and arms as he slumped forward. His head lolled to the side, resting against someone’s chest, and his knees buckled beneath him. But Elladan was no longer concerning himself with his body. He was struggling to right his thoughts, for all of reality seemed to be turning on its head and the darkness had returned in force, violent and raging. Retreating deep within himself, Elladan tried in desperation to resist the influence of the shadows while conflicting images blurred together as one before him, further distoring his mind. The buzz of the surrounding world became loud and intrusive, and Elladan cried out in fear and helplessness, hoping against all hope that a way would open. For the moment he seemed to be holding his own, but that would not last much longer. As though sensing his imminent demise, the darkness loomed tall before him, preparing to strike, and frantic thoughts whirled about in a fey and chaotic spiral that ultimately descended into shadow.

  


And then he sensed another presence within the turmoil.

  


Something stood with him. He could not identify this something, nor could he name its source, but he was immediately grateful for its presence. The darkness suddenly parted around him, enabling his own will to reassert itself. He remembered everything now, and he would not be so daunted by shadows ever again. These agents of darkness had no claim over him. He was beyond their grasp! With the madness momentarily distracted, he struck, fighting and clawing as he threw off the mental chains that bound him. Deep within his mind, something snapped, and then a rushing wind flashed over him while a menagerie of colors swept through his distorted world.

  


And Elladan was suddenly back.

  


Falling to the side, he was caught by strong arms that held him firmly while another turned his face upward, fingers lingering against his temples. With a slight groan, he tried to stand and struggle away from whoever was holding him, but the arms only tightened around his chest.

  


"Elladan?"

  


Somehow finding the strength to open eyes he could not remember closing, Elladan looked toward the source of the quiet voice and blinked as Celeborn’s face swam into focus.

  


"Elladan, are you with us? Can you answer me?"

  


"Yes. Yes, I am here," Elladan whispered, reaching back and grasping the shoulder of the person that held him. He frowned as his hand came into contact with a coarse fabric that seemed to be a protective vest of some kind, but it was not a fabric that would have been used in Rivendell. Tipping his head up, he squinted and eventually made out Thranduil’s strong features. "What…what happened?" he asked, suddenly confused. Hadn’t Elrohir been holding him?

  


"Apparently the darkness had a greater hold on you than we thought," Thranduil answered softly. "My apologies. I had believed you were safe."

  


Elladan shook his head, still trying to make sense of things, and began to move, trying to get his feet firmly beneath him. Seeming to sense Elladan’s desire to stand on his own, Thranduil loosened his hold and shifted his hands to Elladan’s shoulders, steadying him.

  


"Elladan?" Elrohir was suddenly before him, his twin’s face a mixture of anger and fear. "How do you feel?"

  


"Better," Elladan answered, pausing for a moment to think about that even as he said it. Strangely enough, he _did_ feel better. Surprisingly so, actually. In fact, he had not felt this good for several days.

  


"Better?" Estel stepped into view and put the back of his hand on Elladan’s brow. "In what way?"

  


Pushing the hand away, Elladan surged forward, breaking free of Thranduil’s hold. He swayed slightly but did not lose his balance. "Better," he said again, backing up when it appeared that Elrohir was going to seize him. "I…my spirit is lighter. And I remember more now. I remember more of the caves. I still do not understand much of what I can recall, but I remember. I know things that I did not know only moments ago."

  


A long stretch of silence met this announcement, and Elladan felt a pang of frustration as he looked at those gathered around him. Skepticism was clearly evident in the eyes of his brothers. Celeborn and Thranduil looked strangely pensive by contrast, yet they said nothing to reveal their thoughts, leaving Elladan to assume that they also thought him mad. Given the circumstances, Elladan couldn’t blame any of them, but at the same time, he was more certain of himself now than he had ever been before. And his inability to express this surety and confidence was beginning to severely try his patience.

  


"Perhaps you should…sit for a while," Estel eventually said, obviously searching for both words and counsel. "Rest. Try not to think about—"

  


"And where do you propose that I rest?" Elladan demanded, sending his twin brother a dark glare when Elrohir continued to hover next to him. "Elbereth, I am not mad! Why can you not accept that I—"

  


"Peace!" Celeborn interrupted, trading glances with Thranduil before turning his full attention upon Elladan. "You say you remember more concerning the caves. What exactly do these memories entail?"

  


"Details, primarily," Elladan said. "I remember Orcs and tunnels as well as the cave’s exit. And I remember feelings of an inner darkness that could not be easily overcome."

  


"And how do you feel now? You say you feel better, but do you feel you are able to hold your own in a fight?"

  


"Yes." The answer came easily and without hesitation. "Yes, I am more than capable of holding my own against any opponent."

  


Celeborn nodded slowly, his eyes narrow. "It is well. If this, then, is indeed the case, I propose that you join me in the rescue party that shall slip in while the main group distracts the Orcs at the entrance."

  


Loud protests immediately shot up from both Elrohir and Estel, but Thranduil silenced them with a sharp look that would have made even Galadriel pause. The elven king’s eyes fell upon Elladan then, and his brow furrowed with thought before he released Elladan from his gaze and turned to Celeborn. "You cannot be certain of this," Thranduil said, his voice low. "It is a dangerous risk."

  


"A risk I am willing to take."

  


"With your own life, perhaps, but are you willing to take this risk with the lives of the rest of the rescue party? And there is also the life of my son, which is dependent upon your group’s success!"

  


"To say nothing of my brother’s life," Elrohir added, daring Thranduil’s stern glance in order to make his view known. "We do not know what just happened to Elladan and—"

  


"On the contrary, I believe I have a very good idea as to what happened to him, and he is safer now than he was earlier," Celeborn answered.

  


"Even were I to accept that—and bereft of an explanation, I am loath to accept anything—Elladan is in no condition to wield a blade!" Estel protested.

  


"Let me be the judge of that," Elladan said, putting a hand on his foster brother’s shoulder. He was feeling more and more himself with every moment, and it was high time to reassert himself. "The weakness has passed, and I feel I am fit. But," he added, turning to Celeborn, "I would also look for an explanation, and not only of what happened to me. I fear I have missed much of your conversation, and I do not understand what it is you wish me to do."

  


"Lord Celeborn intends to lead a team of elves into the caves themselves on a rescue operation while the rest of our forces battle the Orcs without," Thranduil said. "If I understand his motives aright, he wishes you to join that team in the hopes that your memories will guide them."

  


"We will also have Gimli’s guidance," Celeborn said. "But if my suspicions are right, Elladan, you will be more valuable than any senses that the dwarf possesses."

  


"And why is that?" Elrohir demanded, his voice becoming harsh with impatience and frustration. "Tell us plainly what has happened to Elladan!"

  


"To tell you everything would require time that we do not have," Celeborn said. "But I will try for a brief explanation. If I am correct, then Elladan fell further into darkness than any of us suspected. He became so ensnared that he ceased to fight the shadows and was eventually complacent within their grasp. But when Elladan struggled to remember all that had happened, the darkness was forced to take a more active role and reveal itself for what it was. In turn, this allowed for others to step in and aid Elladan in his fight. Together, we drove the shadows back and the darkness is gone now. Of that I am certain, for I felt it leave his mind, as did Thranduil. In many ways, Elladan is probably safer than the rest of us at this point."

  


"And my memories are now clearer as well," Elladan said quietly, thinking through the explanation and matching it to the impressions he’d felt moments ago. "The choice, then, is obvious. I should accompany those who are to enter the caves. I could be of great help."

  


"But only if you are capable of defending yourself!" Estel said. "And from what I can see, you are not. You would become a burden and a distraction should a conflict arise. Others would be forced to see to your safety."

  


"You underestimate me if you think I am unable to hold my own," Elladan said, a flicker of anger beginning to grow in his heart. "Perhaps you should remember who taught you to wield a sword."

  


"And perhaps you should remember that only moments ago you could not stand without aid!" Estel returned fiercely.

  


"I suggest a compromise," Thranduil said, his tone sharp and commanding as he sought everyone’s attention. "Elladan accompanies Lord Celeborn and his party to the other side of the clearing and waits. Should he recover sufficiently before they enter the caverns, he will go with them. If not, he will remain with the archers and assist them in their efforts. His skills with the bow are sufficient for such a task, and he would be protected by those around him."

  


There was a moment of silence as all considered this, and then Elrohir spoke, his voice slow and deliberate. "I would agree to that if I could trust Elladan to make an honest assessment of his own health. But knowing him as I do, I cannot find it in myself to believe that he will refrain from entering the caves even should he not feel well enough to do so."

  


Elladan frowned, a flash of indignation sparking through his mind. He opened his mouth to answer Elrohir, but Celeborn spoke first. "If you cannot trust your brother, trust me," the elven lord said. "Trust my judgement. I promise you, Elrohir, and you also, Estel, that I will not allow Elladan to accompany me if he seems unwell in my eyes."

  


Another silence fell, and then Elrohir nodded. "That will suit me. Estel?"

  


"Yes, I can agree to that," the king of Gondor said after a brief hesitation.

  


"How kind of you," Elladan muttered.

  


"Then we are finished here," Thranduil declared. "All that remains is to order our own forces and arrange ourselves as is necessary. Let us go now, and see that things are prepared. Unless I am otherwise needed, I will await Rivendell’s signal come morning."

  


"Remember that the commander of this darkness must be destroyed," Celeborn said before Thranduil could turn away. "But he cannot be destroyed until those of us in the rescue party are well underway, for when he is gone, his power over some of the Orcs may vanish. They might seek to kill Legolas and Merry before they can be liberated."

  


"We will heed your words," Thranduil said, and for a small moment, Elladan thought he caught a glimmer of fear in the king’s eyes. Then it was gone, and the implacable defender of Mirkwood returned. "See that your own mission does not fail." And with that, Thranduil strode away, disappearing into the darkness as a silent shadow.

  


"Come," Celeborn said to Elladan, putting a hand on his shoulder and pulling him away. "We must gather those who are to accompany us, and I will tell you of what we have planned. Your brother shall look after Rivendell's forces."

  


"Safety go with you," Elrohir said, and Elladan turned back to meet his twin’s gaze.

  


"May it go with you, also," Elladan said. "And keep Estel out of trouble. He is not entirely trustworthy."

  


Estel rolled his eyes and shook his head, murmuring something rather foul beneath his breath, but Elrohir did not turn his gaze from Elladan, recognizing the remark for what it was. With simple words and a meaningful glance, Elladan promised to hearken to prudence, and Elrohir was to stop worrying about him and look to other needs. "I will see you when this is over," Elrohir said at length.

  


Elladan inclined his head. "Until then." He smiled briefly, nodded at Estel, and turned away, quickly following Celeborn as the other led him into the darkness of the forest.


	28. When Wiser Eyes Turn Elsewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

"Hold."

A whisper almost as silent as the waning night brought the party to a halt, and Sam shuffled closer to Pippin, telling himself it was for the other’s protection as much as his own. A bit of starlight gleamed briefly off Gimli’s axe as the dwarf stopped next to them, and then a slight murmur of elven voices could be heard in the stillness before they also fell quiet. The air seemed to grow heavy, and it took Sam a moment to realize that the elves they’d traveled with were now dispersing. Without their presence, the shadows upon the ground grew stronger, and Sam felt as though tendrils of darkness were curling around the back of his mind.

"Sam, what—"

Sam touched Pippin’s arm, silencing his friend, and closed his eyes, listening intently. After months of traveling with the Fellowship and honing his ears on companions such as Legolas and Strider, Sam had developed an ability to pick out the noises of stealthy elves. It was a difficult task and his unease was certainly not helping him concentrate, but despite the circumstances, he eventually heard the shifting of trees and the faint rubbing of leaves against one another that indicated quiet movements above and around them. The only other sounds came from Gimli and Pippin as they shifted restlessly in the dark.

"No Orcs, at least," Sam whispered as he continued to listen.

"What?"

"I don’t hear any Orcs," he repeated, opening his eyes and looking toward Pippin.

"Then why are the elves moving off?" Gimli murmured, his eyes trained on the branches overhead where he had apparently managed to track some of the elusive archers.

A shape suddenly detached itself from the surrounding shadows, and Sam’s hand flew to Sting before he recognized one of Rivendell’s twin lords. _Elladan_ , he told himself. _Elladan was the one who collected us. Elrohir is still with Strider._

"Come, my friends," Elladan whispered, stepping to one side and gesturing for them to follow. "Lord Celeborn wishes to speak with you."

"It’s about time," Pippin muttered, and though he said nothing, Sam heartily agreed. After being removed from whatever council the others had been holding—Sam was still a little shaken at the look he’d seen in Thranduil’s eyes just before they left—the two hobbits and Gimli had taken out their frustrations by glaring at the darkness. This had been less than effective, and when Elladan and Celeborn turned up later, both had nearly lost their heads when they were set upon by a very hushed but very determined dwarf who had demanded to know what was going on. In the end, the promise of a complete explanation was enough to convince Gimli, Sam, and Pippin, to follow the two elves as they began collecting other elves, almost exclusively archers. Then they had started walking.

Sam’s sense of direction and distance had never been very reliable outside the Shire, and he was now completely lost. Pippin had the same problem, but Gimli was a different story. According to the dwarf, they had traveled in the opposite direction of supposed entrance to the Orcs’ cave and then had slowly turned back toward it. But Gimli could say no more than that, for he had not seen the actual entrance and only knew its general location. Still, Sam took heart from the knowledge that their travel probably indicated decisive action of some kind in the near future. As Pippin had already noted, it was about time.

Stumbling over a root hidden beneath the shifting shadows, Sam shook his head and redirected his concentration. If the elves were indeed about to act, he had best be ready, and he would only be ready if he was alert and prepared. Ahead of them, Elladan was periodically stopping to make certain that they were following, but in his eyes was a flash of impatience that signaled he was anxious to hurry. If Sam had learned anything from his months in the Fellowship, it was that an anxious elf was an unpredictable elf, and they would be wise to hurry after Elladan before he decided to leave them in the darkness because they were too slow.

"Haste," Gimli murmured quietly, seeming to reach a similar conclusion. No one objected to this counsel, and together, the three quickened their steps as Elladan led them swiftly through the trees. After a bit the ground began to rise, and they found themselves climbing, scrambling over and around rocks as the earth beneath them began to change. 

"Caves, right?" Pippin hissed, and Gimli’s helmet flashed in the moonlight as the dwarf nodded. Sam’s stomach clenched briefly, though whether in anticipation, excitement, or fear, he could not say.

At length, the ground leveled out, and Elladan led them around a thick cluster of trees and stopped. The light of moon and stars did not penetrate the thick leaves overhead, and it took a moment for Sam’s eyes to adjust. But it was not long before he could make out a group of elves huddled further back in the trees, and at their center stood Celeborn. The group had been speaking quietly amongst themselves, their hushed voices blending almost seamlessly with the dark silence of the night, but now they fell quiet. After a moment, Celeborn gave the other elves a sharp nod and they withdrew, disappearing from sight.

"There has been little time for talk and I apologize for that," Celeborn said, his voice barely above a whisper as he walked over to Sam and his companions. "You must have many questions."

"Yes, we do," Pippin said. "I was hoping that you could explain a few things to us."

His tone was not quite a challenge, but it was close enough that a flash of anger briefly darkened Celeborn’s eyes. Sam shivered and hastily intervened. "What he meant is that we’re not sure of our role here."

"Durin’s beard, we know exactly what he meant," Gimli growled. "And I believe that Pippin speaks for all of us. Enough of dawdling and enough of secrets. I am more than ready for answers!"

Celeborn’s eyes flashed again, and Sam was reminded of stories he’d heard in the Hall of Fire about the brutal wars of the First Age and the battle skills a certain elven lord who would later become the lord of Lothlórien. If Sam remembered his history correctly, angering Celeborn was not a particularly wise decision. And though he was also anxious about Merry and Legolas, Sam was not yet so far gone in his worry that he could not see just how frayed tempers were becoming.

Fortunately, Celeborn’s restraint proved greater than Sam’s fears, and the elven lord merely favored both Gimli and Pippin with a sharp look before speaking. "You know that we discovered a cave guarded by Orcs."

"We wouldn’t have known had Gimli not been the one to point you in the right direction," Pippin muttered.

"Begging your pardon, that is," Sam said quickly. "It’s just that no one seems to have the time to talk to us and—"

"Then listen now while there is time," Celeborn said, his voice soft but stern. "Otherwise there will be no chance for answers until this is over." He paused for a moment, and to his credit, Pippin had the grace to look away and nod in agreement. "Good. Now, the cave’s entrance is currently to the west. We have come around behind it, and the rest of our party sits to the east. The entrance sits in the side of a hill. The incline is sharp and makes travel above the hill difficult without ranging far out of the way. Because of this, we are now above most of the Orc patrols. Archers are keeping a close watch on the few scouts that are up here and will alert us should we need to conceal ourselves. Extreme caution is in order, and for this reason, none of you are to be alone at any time."

"I have no wish to conceal myself," Gimli spat. "We’ve done nothing but conceal ourselves since—"

"If you will allow me to finish, I will explain," Celeborn interrupted coolly.

His voice had been impossibly quiet, yet it had somehow managed to completely override Gimli’s voice, and Sam found himself shuddering slightly at the tone. Perhaps Thranduil had not been the one to fear earlier. Celeborn was doing a remarkable job of scaring him right now.

"Thank you," the elf-lord continued when no one spoke. "Now, directly to the east of our cave’s entrance is a large clearing flanked by trees. Come daybreak, Elrohir will lead a force of Rivendell swordsmen into this clearing and challenge the Orcs. He will feint an attack and then withdraw, pulling the Orcs after him after a sufficient number have engaged him in battle. His retreat will last only until the trees are once again at his back, and then forces from Gondor, Lothlórien, and Greenwood shall attack from the north and the south. The way west they will keep clear, though, for from that direction, reinforcements from the caves shall arrive.

"You want to draw out all the Orcs inside the caves," Pippin said slowly, his eyes narrowed. "And you want to keep their attention focused on the west."

Sam was rather impressed. His own mind had begun to wander when Celeborn started speaking of the plan’s specifics. He knew he should pay better attention, but strategy had never been his forte and none of this seemed to directly affect him.

"Then we are to be a rescue party," Gimli stated.

Sam scratched his head. Apparently this _did_ directly affect him.

"Precisely," Celeborn said. "Once enough Orcs are involved in the battle, we shall make our move for the entrance. Archers above the hill will cover us from the east, and archers in the trees about the battle will distract the Orcs should they think of looking back. If our timing is correct, we should be able to slip into the caves."

"But what then?" Pippin asked. "I’ve been to Moria, and I can tell you that some caves are very long with all sorts of twists and turns. We could be lost for days."

"First of all, these caves are not Moria," Celeborn answered. His face was devoid of expression but in his voice was a hint of impatience. Sam was suddenly very glad that he had the inquisitive Pippin along to ask the questions, for he didn’t think that he would have had the courage to do so himself. "The caverns will not be overly extensive. There is little chance of our becoming lost for any extended period of time. Furthermore, Elladan seems to have inherited vicarious memories of the tunnels. His knowledge may prove invaluable. Additionally, the elves I have chosen to accompany us are old enough to remember the elven caverns of Menegroth and Nargothrond from the First Age. They will not lose their way. We will also have Gimli’s experience and instincts to guide us. Using all of this, there is a good chance that we will find our friends. Finally, it is highly doubtful that _we_ will be lost for days as _we_ are not going. You, Peregrin Took, are staying here, along with Master Samwise."

Sam felt as though someone had just knocked the ground out from under his feet and then turned the world on its side. "Not going?" he found himself protesting. Apparently surprise and indignation could make up for a lack of courage when it came to questioning Celeborn. "What do you mean? Of course we’re going! Why would you bring us with you all the way to the other side of the cave—"

"We brought you here for your own protection," Celeborn said, and something in his manner silenced Sam. "The two of you will stay with the archers, and as they will not be involved in the battle until the latter part, you should be safe enough. I have spoken with one of Greenwood’s captains, and he has agreed to look after you."

It was the wrong thing to say. "He has agreed to _look after_ us?" Pippin repeated, an expression of outrage spreading over his face. "I have not needed _looking after_ since the War of the Ring, and if you think that you can—"

"I do not presume to _think_ that I can, Peregrin Took, as I already _know_ that I can," Celeborn said, and the chill of command forced Sam back a step or two. "There will be no more talk on this matter. Dawn approaches and we must away."

Pippin spluttered for a moment but seemed unable to find words. He turned to Sam for help, but Celeborn looked as though he had been pushed far enough and as Sam had no desire to die before the battle even began, he chose to stay quiet. Still searching for an ally, Pippin turned to Gimli and Elladan, but they seemed to be in agreement with Sam. Further discussion would not change the situation but rather make it worse.

__

Besides, circumstances could always be adjusted later. _I just need to make Pippin understand that_ , Sam thought, hoping against hope that the other hobbit would follow the examples of those around him and keep his mouth shut. Fortunately, the Valar seemed to be smiling upon Sam that day. Or at the very least, they weren’t actively seeking to disrupt his life, for Pippin did not offer any further protest. The look upon his face suggested that he was less than pleased, but against all odds, he remained silent. Sam interpreted this as an exceptionally good omen.

Another elf had now appeared, stepping out of the night’s darkness as though it was a cloak he wore, and Celeborn began speaking with him. Sam tried to follow their words but they spoke in the elven tongue, and though he had given that language a game attempt, the gardener had never become very fluent.

"You would not enjoy the trip into the caves," Gimli murmured beside Sam, pulling the hobbit away from the elven conversation and giving him a look that combined an apology with relief. "Orc caverns twist about like a disease within the earth, and their filth upon the walls is enough to turn a dragon’s stomach. Had it been my decision to make, I would have done as Lord Celeborn has done. I would have ordered you to remain here."

"Remind me to have words with you about hobbit abilities later," Pippin grumbled, his eyes stormy. "But right now, I think the point is that it shouldn’t have been _anyone’s_ decision to make. Who does he think he is, ordering us around?"

"He thinks that he is the commander of elven soldiers that will soon be risking their lives on a venture with a somewhat dubious chance of success," Celeborn’s voice broke in, as cold as a winter’s morning in the Northfarthing. "He thinks that he has seen enough battles and enough bloodshed during the last few millennia to know how to properly conduct a battle and its participants. And he thinks that minimizing the danger to both himself and those who follow him would be in everyone’s best interests, particularly when they are daring such dangerous risks."

Taking a firm hold of Pippin’s arm, Sam drew his friend backward. "Begging your pardon, but it’s been a long night," he said, tightening his grip when he felt Pippin start to move away. "We’ll just settle down back here and stay out of the way."

"Peace, everyone," Elladan said softly, speaking for the first time since telling Gimli, Pippin, and Sam to follow him. "Peace. The tension grows and our bickering makes it worse. Lord Celeborn, you said that one of the Greenwood commanders had agreed to watch over Master Gamgee and Master Took. Is this him, then?"

Celeborn gave Elladan a rather calculating look, but there was no longer any evidence of anger or irritation on his face. At length he nodded and then indicated the elf that had joined them. "Yes. This is Tawar. He has served Thranduil for many years and captains the archers who will be overlooking the ridge. Peregrin and Samwise should be safe enough in his care."

Sam could feel Pippin stiffening beside him and he felt his own hackles rising, but now was not the time for debate. Dawn was coming quickly. The edges of the sky were getting lighter, and if Sam understood the plan correctly—at least, the part of the plan he’d paid attention to—that was the signal for some of the elves to attack. Things would soon be underway, and this group needed to be ready. "Thank you, sir," Sam said, directing his words to Tawar while keeping an iron hold on Pippin’s arm. "We’ll be indebted to you, I’m sure."

Tawar’s sharp eyes studied the hobbits briefly and he nodded, giving an air of distance and indifference that Sam had found to be a common trait in most elves in from Greenwood. Or Mirkwood, more accurately, as it seemed to be a side effect of living in such a place. Then Tawar turned back to Celeborn and spoke, his words now spoken in the Common Tongue in deference to the hobbits. Sam took this as a sign of a remarkably considerate Mirkwood elf.

"The sun rises and my archers await my presence. I must leave now, my lord."

"May Elbereth watch over you," Celeborn answered. "Elladan, Gimli, we must go now to join our own party. Any additional questions that you have, Master Dwarf, will be answered as we walk. Master Hobbits, I pray that I will see you again when this is over."

"Good luck," Sam offered. Pippin said nothing, possibly because any sound he made would be a sound of agony. Sam still had a bruising grip on his upper arm.

"You have the better part of this," Gimli said, still attempting to reassure the hobbits. Celeborn and Elladan had already moved away, and the dwarf started after them before stopping one more time and glancing back at the hobbits. "Stay safe," he added gruffly. "Don’t try anything heroic. You’ve both done enough of that in the past." And then he was gone, lost in the darkness that didn’t seem to disperse despite the growing light in the east.

"Come," Tawar said, his eyes glancing over the hobbits for a moment ere he turned away and began walking. "We will seek a place of concealment for you."

"Coming," Sam said, physically pulling Pippin along with him. But the other hobbit was having none of it and he suddenly twisted, wrenching his arm away.

"Are you mad?" Pippin demanded in a harsh whisper, his eyes raging. "We’ve as much right to go in looking for Merry and Legolas as—"

"Of course we do," Sam shot back, looking over his shoulder but seeing no sign of Tawar. The other elf probably thought they were still following obediently. "But we weren’t going to convince Mr. Celeborn of that, and even Gimli was on his side. If we want to help look for Merry and Legolas, we’ll have to go about it our own way."

"And what way is that?" Pippin hissed, though anger now seemed to be warring with curiosity.

"Just a little something I learned from ol’ Stinker," Sam answered. "When Gandalf said Gollum might have a role to play, he was right, and in more ways than one. You can pick up the strangest lessons from folk like him."

"Sam, you’re not making any sense," Pippin said, and Sam could hear the anger winning out. "Why are you talking about Gollum? How does he have anything to do with—"

"Master Hobbits?" Tawar’s voice called to them from somewhere in the darkness, and Sam took the opportunity to once again latch onto Pippin’s arm and pull him forward.

"I’ll show you," he whispered as he walked, forcing the other hobbit to keep up with him. "But for now, play along, Mr. Pippin. It will be all right soon. You’ll see. Everything will work out for the best."

* * * *

Haldir was upset.

And becoming more so by the minute.

It was not the increasing number of Orcs that caused his irritation, though that was indeed worrisome. One misstep now and he may as well hand both himself and Orophin over to the foul creatures so as to save them all time and effort. Nor was his ire triggered by the yawning cave mouth several hundred feet away, though that was also a source of concern. The darkness that poured from it was almost tangible, and the feeling reminded Haldir far too much of the shadows that once crept from the walls of Dol Guldur. No, what bothered Haldir at the moment was his brother. Or more precisely, his brother’s choices, which now included a rather staunch decision about staying here instead of returning to Imladris.

"Have you lost all reason?" Haldir demanded, his voice low enough that the Orcs below would not hear him but loud enough that Orophin would be able to catch the outrage, astonishment, anger, and fear that welled up inside. "We’ve found the entrance to your cavern, we’ve monitored the patrols, and we’ve made a count of all the Orcs in the area. We can do no more here on our own. Let us leave and come back with assistance."

"We have no time for such things," Orophin murmured, not even sparing Haldir a glance. He spoke in the even, calm tone that indicated he had considered the matter thoroughly and eliminated all other options. Haldir remembered that this particular tone of voice had always managed to infuriate Rúmil. He also remembered that no one had ever been able to change Orophin’s mind once this tone of voice made an appearance.

The two brothers crouched together on a thick branch high above a huddle of Orcs, who were more interested in dividing up a bundle of raw venison than in noticing the existence of the elves above. Several hundred feet away, a large cliff rose above the forest, and at its base was a yawning black cave. It was what they had been looking for—the entrance to the Orcs’ lair. More than that, it was one of the main entrances, or so Haldir judged. The plants about the cave’s mouth had been trampled down, and the earth bore the marks of many feet. There didn’t seem to be much activity at the moment and the guards looked somewhat distracted, but there was no telling when the Orcs would snap to attention and notice just how close a pair of Marchwardens had come to their stronghold. Haldir was not willing to press his luck any further this night.

"Earlier you agreed to abide by my orders," he hissed to Orophin, deciding that he had nothing to lose by pulling rank. "If that has not changed, then obey me now! We are leaving. We have no purpose here."

"I did agree to follow your orders," Orophin answered. "But that was when other commanders did not involve themselves. You were my captain, and I could answer to no other. That has now changed."

As petty as it was and as close as danger pressed, Haldir still felt himself bristle at that. Authority and command were things not easily gained or lost within the hierarchy of Lothlórien’s Marchwardens. "Has it indeed changed? Why is that?"

"We located the caves sooner than I expected," Orophin answered with a shrug that seemed to imply that the answer was self-evident.

Haldir frowned. "And because we found the cave, I have suddenly been dismissed as your captain?"

"Nay, you have merely been superceded."

"By what?" Haldir was rapidly losing patience. "The cave? The Orcs? The shadows upon the ground?"

"Hush," Orophin whispered, giving his brother a rather annoyed look. "Lower your voice. You risk alerting the Orcs."

"We risk alerting the Orcs by our very presence here! Explain to me why my orders no longer apply to you!"

Orophin’s jaw tightened and he looked back toward the cave they had found. "I thought the caves would be more difficult to find," he murmured. "With only two of us looking, I had little hope that we would accomplish anything. Yet we managed to find this. And with so many elves searching, it is almost a certainty that the others also managed to find something. Perhaps another entrance." Orophin rose from his crouch and eased himself up onto a higher branch, taking care that his movements did not attract unwanted attention. "They will have formed a plan of attack. That plan will draw these Orcs away from us. It will give us an opening, Haldir. It will give us an opportunity. And as Marchwardens, we have standing orders to make us of every opportunity to harass the enemy."

Haldir narrowed his eyes and moved up beside Orophin. "Marchwardens we may be, but two of us are hardly a match for an army of Orcs."

"We will not face an army," Orophin said. "Rather, we will face the leader of these Orcs and his guards."

Haldir blinked. "The leader?"

"Think on it, brother. The Enemy always saw the minions as soldiers that could be replaced, but the captains were protected. Think you that this situation will be any different? We face some agent of Mordor or Dol Guldur. He will not see himself as expendable and will wait out the battle from the safety of the caverns. He will be watching for an assassination attempt from the front, but will he watch his flank so closely? Especially when he is safe within the walls of his own stronghold?"

With a shake of his head, Haldir wondered if he was losing his own sanity as rapidly as Orophin seemed to have lost his. The proposed scenario and plan, as inane and foolish as they were, had made a strange kind of sense. Rubbing his hands over his temples, Haldir undertook one last attempt to dissuade them both. "I do not like this," he said.

"I do not ask you to."

"The opportunities spoken of are meant to be _reasonable_ opportunities."

"This is a reasonable opportunity. The Orcs will leave to join the battle. We will have a chance to move in, facing only guards and lackeys."

"You do not know that the other elves have found anything. You do not know that they will seek to attack the Orcs."

"That is true."

"You do not know that the leader of these Orcs will be within the caverns. You do not know that we will be able to find him."

"Again, that is true."

"This entire plan is based on nothing more than conjecture. You are risking our lives on a guess!"

"Also true," Orophin said. He turned and gave his brother a wan smile. "But I am usually quite good at guessing. You cannot deny that."

Haldir wondered when exactly he had lost control of this situation while at the same time conceding that his brother did have a point. Orophin usually waited until as many facts were known as possible before coming to a conclusion of any kind, but when he did have to guess, he was almost always right. The uncanny intuition that had guided Rúmil also guided Orophin when he allowed it to. But it was unusual for Orophin to make no attempt at pursuing more information to back his guess. "How do you feel?" Haldir asked suspiciously, a grim possibility suddenly leaping to mind.

Orophin’s smile grew slightly. "I feel strained, weary, manipulated, and shadowed. But the darkness does not control me. I choose this path on my own."

Frustration took Haldir once more. "Orophin, we are only two elves."

"So you have said many times this night."

"You promised me that we would not involve ourselves and that should danger grow too great, we would retreat."

"We have yet to engage the Orcs in combat, and I have no intention of doing so unless there are far fewer Orcs than what we now see. As for danger, this is no different from what we have done many times at home."

Haldir sat back and closed his eyes. "You will not leave, will you? You are set upon this." He opened his eyes again and looked at his brother, sorrow and grief suddenly squeezing his heart. "Orophin, if this is about—"

"It is not about Rúmil, if that is what you think," Orophin interrupted, his voice becoming so quiet that it was difficult to make out. "At least, it is not about destroying those who destroyed him. But it _is_ about honoring what he was. And he was a Marchwarden. As are you and as am I. We have a chance to strike against our enemy. We are obligated to take that chance."

"I have let this go too far," Haldir murmured, his eyes now moving to study the cave’s entrance.

"If it eases your mind, you had no choice," Orophin whispered.

"It does not," Haldir sighed. "But I thank you for the effort." He shook his head and decided that knocking his brother unconscious would make too much noise. For better or for worse, they were committed. "What do you propose?" he asked.

"We wait and we watch," Orophin answered, looking somewhat relieved at Haldir’s agreement.

"And then?"

Orophin’s lips lifted in something that was more grimace than grin. "Then, brother, we become Marchwardens."

* * * *

Far away in the east, the sky above the Misty Mountains was shifting from black to gray with the coming of dawn. Shades of pink and purple painted the drifting clouds and hints of light could be seen on the backs of the peaks by those in possession of elven sight. And to most elves, the sight would have been considered beautiful. Reassuring. Peaceful. To most elves, the sight would have been welcomed with joy as a sign that hope could spring anew.

Tawar, captain of Greenwood and guard of the realm’s princes, was not most elves.

For that matter, nearly every elf that had labored beneath the shadow of Mirkwood would not fit into the category of "most elves." To them, the dawn was a farce. A sham. A mockery. Before the destruction of the Ring, the darkness within the depths of the forest had not fled at the rising of the sun. If anything, it had grown stronger, as though intent upon proving to the elves that they were not the masters of their own home. And for the most part, it had worked. Dawn had been a time when the elves realized that no matter what they did and no matter what great events happened in the future, a part of their forest would always be dark. Not even the brilliance of the sun could chase the shadows into hiding. What difference could their own efforts make?

After the destruction of the Ring, some of the elves had held the hope that the fall of Sauron might work a great miracle. A few had clutched fervently at the belief that Mirkwood could be salvaged and restored to its former glory. But in the end, it was not to be, for darkness lived. Despite the downfall of Dol Guldur, there were still shadows in Greenwood, and perhaps most tragic was the fact that these shadows survived in the hearts of the elves that had fought them. It was a bitter irony that they endured each time the sun cleared the tops of the trees and failed to chase the darkness away. Thranduil’s people had been tainted by evil, and they would never be the same.

And so Tawar watched the dawn with a familiar feeling of resigned sorrow. The darkness in the sky above faded, and as it gave way to the light of the sun, the feeling of shadow deep within Tawar’s heart became more pronounced. In some ways, it was worse now than it had been when the forces of Dol Guldur assailed the elves. Then, they had been too preoccupied to fully realize the cost of their struggle. The growing darkness without had made it easier to forget the growing darkness within. Now, they no longer had such a luxury.

Shaking his head, Tawar firmly redirected his mind. This was not the time for such thoughts. A battle would commence soon, and he would need all his faculties in order to make sense of the madness that would develop. For it was chaos that the elves sought to inspire within the Orcs, and no matter how carefully planned a battle might be—and this particular battle was anything but—disorder in the enemy tended to produce disorder within one’s own troops. Tawar would need to keep a close watch upon his archers. They would be somewhat removed from the battle and that would help, but when the ranks broke and Orcs began to flee up the steep slope toward them, anything could happen.

To make matters worse, Tawar had been charged with the care of two hobbits. Had anyone other than Celeborn asked him to take on such a task, Tawar would have denied them outright. Even Thranduil would have been hard-pressed to make Tawar accept such a responsibility. But there were some elves you did not refuse no matter the circumstances, and Celeborn was one of these elves. There were stories of Thranduil’s hot temper, and there were legends of Oropher’s fierce rage, but when Celeborn became angry—a mercifully rare event—he eclipsed them both. And so, sensing an unusual amount of impatience from the lord of Lothlórien, Tawar had quickly agreed to watch the hobbits.

Glancing back at the pair that now occupied his thoughts and noting that they were yet again falling behind, Tawar sighed and felt a brief swell of pity. It was really not the hobbits’ fault that they had become Tawar’s burden. This was probably the safest place for them, after all. But surely they could hurry a bit more! "Haste," he whispered. "We must position ourselves quickly."

The younger of the two— _Pippin_ , Tawar remembered—looked as though he wanted to protest, but the other hobbit held his arm firmly and shook his head. _At least one of them is reasonable_ , Tawar thought, turning around hurrying forward. One of his scouts had discovered a large stone sheltered by closely-knit trees near the crest of the hill and assured Tawar that the hobbits would be safe enough there. He could not be with them at all times for he had a battle to oversee, but he could at least remain close to them. That would have to be enough.

Finally reaching the shelter his scout had spoken of and noting that it was indeed a good shelter, Tawar directed the hobbits to place the rock at their back and draw their swords. "It is unlikely that Orcs will reach you, but much can happen during the course of a battle," he warned. "I will be ahead of you aiding the archers and will remain close at all times. If you are in need of aid, do not hesitate to call."

"Thank you for looking out for us," the older hobbit said, bowing slightly as he spoke. Tawar recalled that his name was Sam. "Has the rescue party already gone into the cave?"

Tawar shook his head. "Nay, they will not go in for some time. The battle must draw as many Orcs away from the caves as possible, and it must hold their complete attention. Only then will the rescue party move forward. My archers will cover them from above should any Orc glance back."

"So you’ll be able to see them go in? You’ll be able to see if they make it in safely?"

"We will see them leave cover and move toward the cave’s entrance," Tawar answered, hoping this would satisfy the hobbit. "They will signal us when they begin and we shall watch over them."

"Up until they enter the cave?" Sam ersisted.

Tawar frowned, and something in the back of his mind sounded a warning. "The rocks and slope make it impossible to see the cave’s entrance itself, but we will certainly watch them for as long as possible. They shall reach the cave safely, I assure you."

The hobbit nodded. "Thank you, again. And I’m sorry to be such an inconvenience. They told us it was safer here, but I know you’ve things to do."

"Your protection is among those things I must do," Tawar answered, deciding that, even if they were a burden, there could be no harm in reassuring the hobbits. "Take no thought for it. But I must leave you now to see to my archers. Be silent and be still. Do not move from this spot!"

Both hobbits nodded their agreement, the younger far more reluctantly than his companion, and Tawar left, satisfied. He would have a runner check on them in a bit, but he now felt better about his charge to watch the hobbits. The older one would keep the younger one quiet, and the elves would be free to concentrate upon the battle.

Almost upon the crest of the hill now, Tawar propelled himself upward into the trees, swung onto a low branch and signaled to an elf that was seated above him. "Laegen!" he hissed. "Report!"

"All are in position with the exception of Coruthal and some of his archers, my lord," the elf answered quietly, dropping down to share the branch. "Coruthal is pursuing a small party of Orcs to the south and believes there could be other Orcs in that region that may enter our territory unwittingly when the battle commences. He is hunting them now."

"The battle will commence in moments," Tawar muttered. "He had best make haste. How many did he leave to cover his position?"

"Half."

"It is well, then. Should the need arise, we can compensate for him until his return. You said that all others are in position?"

"Yes, my lord, and all have sent messengers stating their understanding of the orders, my lord. Orcs that near the position of the search party will be shot, but until the search team is within the caves, we will not betray our position to any others."

"Good," Tawar said with a nod. "Return to the back lines. I wish to be informed of any Orc movement behind us when the battle begins. I will be among Thavron’s company."

"As you command, my lord," Laegen said, bowing before turning away and disappearing into the trees.

Tawar was quick to follow, moving into the upper branches and moving away from the top of the slope so that he would not risk being seen when he went to find Thavron. The rising tension in the air signaled that the battle would begin soon, and those Orcs capable of sensing such things would become cautious. If any of the elves on the eastern side of the cave were seen ere Elrohir could draw the Orcs’ attention to the west, everything would fall apart. Care and great caution were needed now. Everything had to happen exactly as planned.

That was when Tawar made the mistake of looking toward the hidden shelter where he’d left the two hobbits.

He had moved far enough away from the crest of the hill that he could see the trees surrounding the boulder where his two charges had been told to wait. Using both the growing light of the dawn and his keen elven sight, Tawar could out details on the stone, and he saw that the trees bent over it, forming a canopy of interlacing branches that would help deflect any arrows that might descend from above. He saw that a gap between trees behind the stone was too small for an Orc to squeeze through and that the only way to access the western side of the rock was to come at it directly. He saw that this was indeed a very defensible position and that his scout had chosen well.

What he did _not_ see, however, were the hobbits.

* * * *

During the course of his long and reasonably sane life, Elrohir had occasionally acted in a way that might be considered rash or foolish. Most of the time, he could excuse himself by claiming that he had taken a calculated risk. And after explaining his perspective on the situation, he was usually accorded agreement. But once in a great while, there were times when his actions could not be classified as the product of rational analysis and were rather the product of frustrated rage.

This was one of those times.

Sunlight was now pouring swiftly over the Misty Mountains, and the Orcs around the cave’s entrance were reacting to it. They had drawn closer together and edged toward the gaping hole in the side of the hill as though seeking escape against the onslaught of light. Thus far, the elves had not been sighted. They had certainly been felt; it would have been nigh unto impossible for a group of elves this large to go unnoticed by Sauron’s former servants. But by and large the elves had managed to stay out of sight of the scouting parties sent out by the enemy, and those few creatures who did spy an elf were quickly and efficiently silenced. As a result, the Orcs knew that elves were about, but they did not know where or how many. This, combined with dislike of the rising sun, was making them anxious, annoyed, and angered, any one of which should have been sufficient to inspire great caution on the part of the advancing elves.

Yet here Elrohir stood, his feet surrounded by churning shadows, ready to march forth alone and strike the first blow.

There had been other elves willing to take this position, of course, and his captains had pleaded with him to let another take his place at the front. They knew that Elrohir would always set himself near the fore of any battle, but they had usually managed to keep him from taking a position on the front line. But this time, their persuasive efforts had failed. Elrohir was fuming, and though he knew that there was wisdom in his captains’ words, he refused to heed it. This nameless enemy had loosed Orcs on Imladris. It had taken prisoner two that Elrohir accounted friends. It had darkened the feet of the searchers with shadows and turned them against one another. And last but certainly not least, it had assaulted Elladan. It had sought to bring harm to his twin. And by so doing, it had roused a fierce protectiveness within Elrohir that now hungered for vengeance and retribution.

So he stood on the edge of the clearing, still hidden by the trees, and waited for the sun to rise just a little higher.

With slow, deliberate movements, Elrohir eased a large bow off of his shoulders and set an arrow to the string. His captains had managed to persuade him to use a ranged weapon for the first strike, adding that the bow was also a good defensive weapon if any of the Orcs chose to shoot him rather than charge him. Elrohir doubted that this would be the case as the enemy was nervous enough that they would probably relish a chance to loose their frustrations in physical combat. But it was always good to err on the side of caution in situations like this, and he had promised Elladan that he would take care of himself. Besides, after he had the Orcs’ attention, Elrohir was certain that there would be opportunities to could convey his anger and frustration in far more close and personal ways. He had only agreed to use the bow for the first blow. The second blow was reserved for his sword.

A high, piping whistle bearing a strong resemblance to a bird’s cry echoed through the clearing. The Orcs paid it no mind, but Elrohir recognized it immediately. The last of the archers were in position. Glancing up, he noted that the sun was just beginning to clear the mountains and that its light would soon hit the trees directly. A hint of gleeful anticipation shivered through him. It was time to act.

With no more thought, Elrohir stepped forward, raised the bow, and shot a large Orc standing directly in front of the cave’s entrance.

The Orc fell instantly and silently as the arrow tore through its throat. It happened so suddenly, in fact, that at first, no one seemed to notice. Elrohir even wondered if he would have to loose a second arrow in order to attract attention. But then a shout suddenly went up from the mouth of the caverns. A lanky goblin coming out of the cave raced to the fallen Orc and then began to cry an alarm. Others took up the cry and weapons were drawn with a sharp metallic ring that sounded loud in the morning air.

Taking this as his cue, Elrohir walked into the open, forsaking the cover of the trees. He shifted his bow into his left hand and bared his sword, raising it high into the air so that it caught the morning sun. " _Elbereth Gilthoniel_!" he cried in challenge, and every eye, both seen and unseen, focused upon him.

For one long moment, all of Arda seemed to hold its breath. The Orcs stared at him, clearly not understanding why one elf would choose to reveal himself in the face of so many Orcs. For his part, Elrohir met their confused looks with a glare of grim determination, his gray eyes flashing with deadly promise.

And then the moment shattered. The Orcs sprang forward, their shouts grating hard upon elven ears. The darkness about their feet rolled and boiled, and Elrohir awaited their coming with fey fury. He could hear minute shifts behind him as other elves prepared to charge. He heard the creak of wood as bows were bent and arrows nocked. He knew that the moment he dropped his sword, the other elves from the Rivendell contingent would spring forward after him and meet the Orcs, drawing others from the caves and then slowly retreating until they were close enough that the archers in the woods could engage them. But until then, Elrohir stood alone, and he reveled in the moment.

The Orcs were drawing close now, and with a cry of defiance, Elrohir finally dropped his sword and rushed forward. The woods filled with shouts as other elves began their charge. Surprise flashed across the faces of the Orcs, but surprise quickly gave way to rage. Upon seeing their mortal enemy, the foul creatures increased their pace, and in turn, Elrohir increased his. He sensed he was dangerously ahead of his companions, and should he survive, he knew his captains would lecture him on such reckless behavior later. But for now, the heat of battle was upon him, and he could not slow his pace. He would be the first to meet the Orcs. His blade would be the first to draw blood.

In honor of his brother, his mother, his captive friends, and all who had suffered at the hands of these loathsome beasts, Elrohir flung himself at the closest Orc with a rush and a cry as the fullness of the morning light broke over a field of shadows.

 


	29. The Breaking of Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

With casual ease, morning’s first light cleared the Misty Mountain’s towering peaks, ambled down slopes of melting snow, and drifted out into the forests and hills surrounding Rivendell. It touched upon spring flowers and furled leaves, bestowing warmth and life as it moved through the trees and chased away the shadows of night. At length it fell upon a clearing and descended gently, intending to banish the darkness that flowed over the ground like a plague upon the earth.

For its efforts, it was promptly reflected back into the sky by an arcing fountain of red.

Forcing his blade through both helm and skull, Elrohir launched himself into a spray of blood, completed his swing, and pivoted to block a club aimed for his lower ribs. His sword swept in, out, and around, and the club went flying into the sea of Orcs, immediately lost beneath their press. Wading further into the fray, Elrohir feinted right and then snapped his sword left with a speed few could follow; three opponents fell headless. Pivoting again, he caught a descending knife on his sword hilt, locked it there, and went for his own knife, stabbing forward and then leaping back as his enemy fell. Realizing the danger in attacking this foe alone, the other Orcs surrounding Elrohir moved to rush as a group, but at that moment, the elves that had been left behind in the initial charge caught up with their leader and began their own assault. Forced to turn their attention away from Elrohir, the Orcs were soon caught between the proverbial hammer and anvil as Elrohir attacked from one side and the bright swords of Rivendell attacked from the other.

__

And so begins the first day of the new year, Aragorn reflected grimly.

The king of Gondor crouched near the edge of the clearing, using both the shadows on the ground and the shadows of the trees to cloak his presence. Further behind him, his soldiers waited for the horn blast that would call them to battle. But in the interim, all eyes remained fixed upon the small cluster of elves from Rivendell now caught in a battle that was becoming faster and more dangerous with every moment.

Elrohir dodged backwards as a spear tip came within inches of his face, and Aragorn inhaled sharply when this move put him beneath a descending axe. Elrohir saw the weapon in time to raise his sword in a block, and the axe was deflected to one side, crashing down upon a smaller goblin. Elrohir took advantage of the momentary confusion to drive his sword through the axe-bearer’s chest, and then he was jumping away again as two more Orcs drewnear.

__

Too fast too soon! Aragorn thought, his right hand clenching about the hilt of his own sword. _Elrohir, stand down! The Orcs will come to you; there is no need to press the attack!_

Going into this battle, the king of Gondor had known there were risks. He’d been well aware that Elrohir’s role as bait was a dangerous one, and he’d accepted that. It would not be the first time Elrohir had taken upon himself the more perilous aspects of a particular strategy, and it would probably not be the last. Elrohir’s confidence in himself as a warrior and in his ability to see patterns within the chaos of battle stood him in good stead, and Aragorn could think of no one else he’d rather have spearheading this attack, with the possible exception of Halbarad. Aragorn trusted Elrohir’s abilities. He trusted his instincts. He trusted his strategy.

He did _not_ trust his temper.

With a growing sense of dread, Aragorn watched Elrohir continue to press against the Orcs, urging his captains to increase the pace. And as Elrohir himself kept advancing, those around him had little choice but to follow. He was angry. The raw power behind every swing of his sword, undisciplined and unfocused, made his rage obvious to everyone. And while Aragorn understood his foster brother’s anger—Valar knew he felt it himself—he still feared it. Elrohir was not a good person to upset, for when he was upset, he took matters into his own hands.

To be fair, Elrohir was still within the parameters of the plan. His task was to place himself and his elves a short distance into the clearing and hold that position, drawing as many Orcs out of the caves as possible. He was accomplishing the latter remarkably well, but he had not yet stopped his forward charge. And it was imperative that he do so soon. When the time came to retreat, Elrohir needed to be close enough to the trees that he could get back without being overtaken and surrounded. If he continued to move forward, he would be too far away. Already a number of Uruks ranged on his northern side, cutting him off from Aragorn. There were not yet so many that they could not be overcome, but it was still an alarming development. Moreover, Aragorn could now only see Elrohir through gaps between the Orcs, and these gaps were closing rapidly. It was nearly impossible to judge either the progress of the battle or the strength of their opponents. And soon it would be impossible to judge whether anything had gone wrong—

A sudden, anguished cry in Sindarin heralded the first casualty on the part of the elves. It was followed by several other cries as five large Uruks broke through the ranks and forced other elves to turn away from their companions and deal with the new threat. Elrohir was among those who hastened to confront the Orthanc half-breeds, and Aragorn found himself torn between relief and fear. The Uruks had temporarily stopped Elrohir’s advance, and for this, Aragorn was thankful. But the sheer ferocity of Elrohir’s attack on the newcomers sent shivers down the king’s spine.

__

And he certainly does not need to laugh in the middle of his attack!

Elrohir was becoming reckless. Aragorn had seen it happen before but never under these conditions. Usually, Elrohir’s brash side did not surface unless he was faced with small groups of Orcs easily overcome or unless he was faced with nearly insurmountable odds and there was nothing left to lose. Neither was the case here. In fact, much of the plan hinged on Elrohir’s ability to draw the Orcs out, hold them until most left the cave, and then lure them back to the waiting ambush. Elrohir knew how important his role was! He knew he could not afford to take unnecessary risks! But still he raged against the Orcs and still he made his position offensive rather than defensive. He had not yet passed the point where he would be unable to withdraw, but he was coming to it quickly and showed no signs of stopping.

Aragorn’s hand had now wrapped itself so tightly around Andúril that his forearm was cramping. Perhaps they should spring the rest of the ambush. It would mean pitching the battle dangerously close to the cave, making Celeborn’s job more difficult, but Aragorn did not know if Elrohir had enough restraint to end his advance. If they stopped him right now and he held his current position, then Rivendell would still be in range of Thranduil’s archers and the plan could go forward. Of course, it would be even better if Elrohir stopped on his own and then also retreated on his own, but he was already growing careless and—

A low, droning sound startled Aragorn out of his thoughts, and he jerked his head toward the mouth of the cave where an Orc held a black goat horn to his lips. The noise suddenly increased in volume and became a harsh call, tearing through the morning air and concluding on a note so shrill that Aragorn half-expected the back of his head to split open. Before the summons ended, answering calls echoed out of the caverns, and they were joined by three separate and distinct horn blasts to the south where Thranduil had placed the bulk of Greenwood’s forces.

Aragorn was loath to take his eyes away from Elrohir, but three different horn calls meant at least three different patrols. Large patrols. They’d anticipated running into a few scouts and Lothlórien had several archer groups set up to prevent an attack from behind, but if there were enough Orcs on the southern side to warrant three horns, then the archers might not be enough. They would need reinforcements, and to this end, Aragorn hurried back to his men in order to dispatch some to the south.

It required only seconds for him to relay his instructions to Arhelm, his chief captain, and when Arhelm began splitting men off of the main group, Aragorn returned to his position near the edge of the clearing. He immediately noted that things had changed. In response to the horn cry, the mouth of the cave had exploded with Orcs that now swarmed into the sunlit clearing like angry wasps. Skimming over the bloodied bodies of both elves and Orcs, Aragorn looked desperately for Elrohir. His heart skipped a beat when he could not immediately find him, but then he heard a loud shout as confusion arose in the middle of the field. The Orcs cleared for a brief moment and Aragorn spied his foster brother with the rest of the Rivendell group. As a unit, they were slowly moving toward the trees. The sudden swell in forces seemed to have cooled Elrohir’s temper, and his strikes were now focused and precise. Under his guidance, Rivendell was slowly withdrawing, leading the Orcs away from the cave and into the ambush created by the men of Gondor and the rest of the elves.

Gratitude was not an emotion that Aragorn usually associated with Orcs, but at the moment, he couldn’t help but send out a mental stream of praise to the Orc that had initiated the horn blast. It had made Elrohir stop. It had forced him to think about what he was doing. In all likelihood, Elrohir would have probably stopped on his own. He had an acute sense of location and timing, especially in the midst of the battle, but Aragorn was still relieved that this sense had not been tested. _If I have an opportunity to confront the Orc that blew the horn, I will be merciful_ , the king decided. _I will not leave him incapacitated by wounds. I will kill him, and his death will be quick._

Elrohir’s slow but steady retreat was bringing him closer to Aragorn’s position now, and the heady rush of battle began to surge through Aragorn’s veins. He shifted his weight forward slightly, adjusting his crouch so that if he needed to move, he could move toward the fighting rather than away from it. The time for concealment was almost at an end. Another few minutes at this pace and Thranduil would send out his own horn call, signaling the ambush. Aragorn quietly eased Andúril from the scabbard at his side, taking care that the sun did not glint off the polished metal and give away his presence.

And then Elrohir stopped.

Actually, the Orcs stopped first, but their halt forced Elrohir to halt. He could not afford to move his elves too far from them as there were now goblin archers upon the field. If Elrohir’s group stayed within the front lines of the Orcs themselves, then the archers had a more difficult time picking out elven targets. As for why the Orcs stopped, that reason was fairly obvious. The captains toward the rear of the attack were becoming suspicious, evidenced by the way they pointed at the trees and at Elrohir’s elves, who continued to battle and to fall as the Orcs at the fore kept up the fight.

This suspicion was something that Thranduil and Celeborn had hoped for. It was not in the nature of Orcs to allow elves to retreat, but if they realized there was a trap, then they would wait to pursue them until they had gathered as much force as possible. They would wait until the caves had nearly emptied before stepping into the trap, and then they would plunge forward, leaving the way clear for the rescue party to slip in. But while it was crucial that as few Orcs as possible stand between Celeborn and the prisoners, Aragorn wondered just how much more Elrohir and his elves could endure. Most were wounded in some fashion, and the strain of holding the attack against so many Orcs was beginning to tell on them. They had drawn together so that their backs were against one another, but for every Orc they killed, another four rushed to take its place. Goblin archers or not, Elrohir needed to get them out of there _now_.

Apparently coming to this conclusion himself, Elrohir started the retreat again. He did not go quickly enough to remove them from the press of Orcs entirely, but the ranks around them thinned and arrows from the archers near the mouth of the cave began to rain down. One elf stumbled as an arrow caught his thigh, another dropped his sword with a cry when a bolt slammed into his shoulder, and a third faltered and fell as a feathered shaft blossomed in his chest.

__

Faster, Elrohir, Aragorn urged, aware that only moments ago he’d been looking for a way to slow the pace. _Faster! Get back to the trees!_

And as though hearing his foster brother, Elrohir started moving faster. With those wounded still able to travel protected in the middle of their defensive circle, Elrohir’s group broke out into what was almost a jog. Ignoring their captains’ orders to halt, the Orcs at the fore gave chase, afraid that their quarry might slip away upon reaching the trees. This movement at the front trickled to the back until all of the Orcs were moving. The captains could restrain them no longer, and with a deafening shout, the fell creatures bore down upon the elves as the caves behind them continued to empty.

The retreat became a rout, and the elves began running, pulling their injured with them when possible. The Orcs behind them surged forward, held at bay only by a thin line of elves intent on giving the wounded a chance to reach safety. Yet they were also moving quickly, backing away so fast that the archers in the rear of the Orcs did not have time enough to adjust their bows. But one or two lucky arrows found a target, and as Aragorn watched in growing fear, one of these arrows suddenly buried itself deep in Elrohir’s side.

Elrohir doubled over, his sword clattering to the ground and disappearing instantly beneath the shadows around his feet. The Orcs he’d been fighting leaped toward him, undaunted by the elves that rushed to help, and Elrohir fell, disappearing from view.

"Elrohir!"

The shout escaped ere he could stop it, and Aragorn leaped to his feet, his eyes frantically searching the swell of Orcs for any sign of his foster brother. The clash of swords overwhelmed his own voice and the Orcs missed his cry; but his men did not, and Aragorn felt them move forward slightly, ready to charge should they be summoned. For his part, Aragorn wanted nothing more than to send them all forward and rush to Elrohir’s rescue, but the decision was not his to make. Thranduil was to signal the attack. Premature action on his part would complicate matters and destroy the balance they’d set up between their forces. He could do nothing but stand and watch, hoping desperately for a sign that Elrohir yet lived and waiting impatiently for the sound that would signal their own attack.

The first of Rivendell’s injured reached the trees, disappearing quickly. Those still hale were not far behind, and the Orcs followed closely. The goblins streamed past Aragorn’s position, and it was all he could do to stop himself from leaping into the fray. A disturbance in the midst of the Orcs signaled elves who had been cut off and could not get back, but the battle was too fast and the enemy too many for Aragorn to see which elves still battled.

And then a sharp horn cry from the other side of the clearing, light yet piercing, sounded in triumphant defiance over the din.

Aragorn sprang forward before the final notes, his men moving in unison behind him. Together they rushed from the trees and crashed into the press of Orcs, who had stopped in surprise as the woods around them erupted with elves and men. The air was suddenly thick with arrows, streaming out of the trees like a deadly rain. Screams and yells swelled up from the goblin hosts as they scrambled back, but with Orcs still pouring out of the cave behind them, they had nowhere to go.

"Elrohir!" Aragorn shouted, wasting no time in taking advantage of the confusion. He had only moments before the Orcs recovered, but he’d spent a lifetime learning how to make the most of those moments. Diving into the battle, Aragorn started working his way through the Orcs, wielding Andúril like a cudgel. There was no time for precision. No time for neat, killing strokes. He couldn’t afford the chance that Andúril would become lodged in a breastplate or deflected by a shield, so he simply batted the Orcs out of his way, using the chaos to escape attention and weaving through their ranks like a Wood-elf weaving through tree limbs.

"Estel!"

Swinging around, Aragorn knocked a mountain goblin unconscious just as an elven knife whistled past his ear and lodged itself in the throat of an Uruk behind him. "Lindir!" Aragorn yelled as a charging elf came into view. "Where—"

"This way," Lindir answered, forging ahead. "Hurry! Their rearguard has regrouped. The fore will soon do likewise."

Two more elves from Rivendell hurried by, following Lindir closely, and Aragorn risked a quick glance back. A sizeable group of his men had managed to keep up with him but they were starting to fall away as surprise on the part of the Orcs was replaced by rage. Near the cave, goblin archers were retaliating with their own volley of arrows, and the front lines had closed against Thranduil’s elves. Realizing they were out of time, Aragorn renewed his assault and hastened after Lindir.

One Orc he clubbed aside with Andúril. A hard kick pushed another out of the way. He reversed his blade and let a third impale itself as it tried to attack his back at the same time that he whipped out a belt knife and caught a fourth across the face. The fighting was becoming more organized now, and the Orcs seemed to realize that they had enemies in their midst. If he didn’t find Elrohir soon—

"Estel! Here!"

Somehow making itself heard over the roar of battle, Lindir’s voice came from Aragorn’s left and he immediately followed it. He blocked low, he hit right, he twisted forward, and he ducked as a sword split the air above him. They needed to get back. It was too dangerous out here!

Then the Orcs before Aragorn parted, and all concerns about danger disappeared.

Lindir was there, sword in one hand and what appeared to be an Orthanc shield in the other. A few feet away from him, one of Rivendell’s captains rocked back and forth on his knees, hands clutching at his side where a spreading stain of red darkened his tunic. Another captain lay beside him, his neck bent at an impossible angle. Seven or eight more elves battled around them in various states of health, some having arrived with Lindir and the rest having been caught too far forward during the retreat. But it was the motionless figure directly behind Lindir that caught Aragorn’s attention, and he felt his blood chill with fear even as the flames of anger roared through his mind.

" _Elrohir!_ "

* * * *

Orophin was good at waiting.

This by itself was not unusual, for most elves were. As immortal beings, their minds were structured in such a way that they could will time to pass over them without so much as a ripple, enabling them to endure the long ages of Arda. But when poised on the edge of battle—or when looking for an opportunity to initiate said battle—anticipation sometimes got the better of many elves. It was in these circumstances that Orophin excelled, for unlike either of his brothers, he could hold his emotions at length, study them, and then dismiss them much as elves in general could dismiss time. Even now, with the grief of Rúmil’s death so fresh and the shadows beneath the trees whispering of betrayal and anger, Orophin felt he was able to adequately distance himself.

Haldir would probably challenge that assertion, but Haldir was unusually protective right now. And to be fair, his brother did have reason to fear. Orophin would admit that his recent actions were not altogether typical for him. He was not usually so defiant or assertive. Most of the time he accepted Haldir’s judgement and commands without protest. But they had a role to play this morning, and they were in a good position to play it. No matter what Haldir said, Orophin could not allow him to jeopardize this opportunity. They were unknown warriors insofar as the Orcs were concerned, and Orophin knew from experience just how dangerous the unknown could be.

The warm light of the morning sun poured down upon him, filtered through thick branches bearing spring leaves. Below, a few small groups of Orcs milled about, seeking shade from the sun. The majority of Orcs had moved into the cave and only ventured back into dawn’s light for a cursory glance before retreating again. The guard had relaxed somewhat and despite the fact that Haldir and Orophin were now only a hundred feet or so away from the cave’s entrance, they were safer than they had been an hour ago. Orophin did not draw much comfort from this, though, for if things unfolded as he hoped they would, their safety would not last long.

A soft whisper of air behind him caused him to look back, and he watched as Haldir moved silently into the upper branches, probably for a better look around. Orophin was mildly surprised that Haldir had been motionless for so long. Frustrated with his brother and uneasy with their current position, Haldir had too much on his mind to sit quietly and stare at nothing. In the past, Haldir would have released his energy by keeping Rúmil under control, for Rúmil had loathed the waiting that preceded action. But that was no longer possible, and Orophin squeezed his eyes shut as the impacts of Rúmil’s death continued to ripple through almost everything they did.

With effort, Orophin pushed his grief to the back of his mind and locked it away. He had shed his tears earlier, and he had vowed to shed no more until this was finished. Composed once again, Orophin directed his attention to the cave’s entrance, watching the shadows closely as the Orcs wandered about. Their movements were slow and languid, which was to be expected as Orcs were usually nocturnal creatures. But they were still alert, and Orophin did not forget this. Though they might seem sluggish now, that could change in an instant if they discovered the presence of two elves so close to their stronghold.

A slight breeze caught hold of his hair, and Orophin glanced up at the sky. The night had been clear, but clouds were starting to build along the horizon, gleaming golden in the morning. It was difficult to be certain for Orophin had rarely been on the western side of the Misty Mountains, but he judged that storms might arise later in the day. Depending on what happened next, that could be either a good thing or a bad thing.

Movement below snapped Orophin’s attention away from the sky, and he focused his eyes upon a cluster of Orcs just within the cave’s entranced, partially illuminated by dawn. New Orcs had appeared, and initially, Orophin assumed that they were here to relieve the guards that had stood watch during the night. But as he continued to watch, he realized that this was not the case. There seemed to be a growing air of unease among the Orcs, and the whispers of conversation that he caught seemed hurried and tense.

Something brushed against his hair and a falling leaf floated past his face. Looking up, he saw Haldir signaling, and Orophin quickly climbed toward him, taking care to attract no attention to himself. When he reached his brother in the upper branches, Haldir directed him to move even higher, risking their position by venturing onto limbs that might bend and shake beneath their weight.

"Listen," Haldir instructed, his whisper so soft it was nearly impossible to hear.

And Orophin listened.

He heard the hushed murmurs of the Orcs, their voices growing louder as the discussions progressed. He head branches and limbs rubbing against one another as the light breeze grew a bit stronger. He heard the stomp of feet as an Orc passed by underneath. He heard his brother’s quiet breathing and the creek of bark as the tree struggled to support them. Further away, he heard bird calls, tentative and uncertain on this morning of shadows. And even further away than that, almost he thought he heard…metal? Yes, metal. The distinctive ring and clang of metal as it pounded against more metal, a sound so distant it could almost be dismissed as a trick of the imagination. And yet it was too distinct for that. Too clear to be a fancy of the mind.

"Battle?" he questioned, mouthing the word more than actually speaking it.

Haldir nodded, his eyes thoughtful. "Battle."

"Then I was right. The searchers found another entrance and they are attacking."

"Possibly."

Orophin frowned and opened his mouth to ask what else it could be when Haldir suddenly gripped his shoulder hard, effectively silencing any questions. His expression one of intense concentration, Haldir closed his eyes and tipped his head to the side. Having seen this before in Lothlórien, Orophin held his breath and made no move, straining his ears to hear whatever had caught his brother’s attention.

The sound, when it came, caught him completely by surprise.

Like a tortured groan soiling the bright morning, a loud, rumbling horn cry thundered through the air. Startled, Orophin jerked away from Haldir’s hold and grabbed at the branch he crouched upon, causing the limbs to shake and sway. Haldir seemed to have expected the horn cry and simply readjusted his balance, watching Orophin’s actions with distracted bemusement. At least three more horn cries followed the first in swift succession, and the Orcs below the two brothers began hastening toward the cave’s entrance, their voices rising in confusion and fear.

Frowning, Orophin turned a baleful glare on his brother. Orc horns sometimes let out a low humming before the actual call, and this was probably what Haldir had first heard. "You might have warned me," Orophin hissed reproachfully, thankful that the Orcs below them had been too distracted to notice the sudden movements in the trees.

"And you might have listened to me when I counseled a return to Rivendell," Haldir muttered, his eyes now focused upon the Orcs just visible in the cave. "Hush, now, and watch."

Somewhat annoyed, Orophin nevertheless did as his brother instructed and turned his attention back to the Orcs. They were huddled closely together, their voices carrying clearly with tones of anger. One voice rose loud above the others, seeming to take command, and the competing voices quieted, eventually disappearing. Orders were issued, though what orders those were, Orophin could not say. He understood some of Mordor’s Black Speech, which was what these particular Orcs were using, but he did not know nearly enough to make out what was now being said.

"Haldir—"

"Hush!" Haldir ordered again, eyes intent upon the cave.

Haldir had always been fascinated by languages and until a few years ago was one of the only Marchwardens in Lothlórien who was fluent in Westron. Less well known was the fact that he was also fluent in several forms of the Black Speech. Most warriors knew bits of one dialect or another, but Orophin could think of very few who knew as much as Haldir did. Painful and disorienting, Black Speech was a difficult tongue for elves to learn, but Haldir had learned it anyway for reasons he would not divulge, though Orophin and Rúmil had always suspected it had something to do with their father’s death. Now Haldir’s unusual ability might give them a great advantage if he understand what the Orcs intended to do.

"There is indeed an attack at another entrance," Haldir whispered after several minutes had crawled by. "A main entrance, judging from their speech. The Orcs suspect a trap. Only half of those here are leaving to reinforce the other entrance. The rest shall stay." His frowned and turned to Orophin. "We cannot attack them. Too many remain."

Orophin shook his head slowly as he studied the Orcs. As Haldir had reported, half were now jogging swiftly into the darkness of the cave. Those not leaving split their forces, some moving back into the woods beneath the shade of the trees while others continued to linger in the cave’s entrance. "We must do something, Haldir," he pleaded. "We can strike at the heart of our enemy."

"No, we cannot," Haldir answered sharply, his voice rising slightly above a whisper. "We would be killed ere we could even reach the caves. Your intentions are good, but they are not reasonable."

"But if we concentrated on those without and lured them away from the sight of their companions, then—"

"Then they would still number too many. Blessed Elbereth, there are nigh unto twenty Orcs now in the forest and at least that many just within the cave. No matter how we arranged it, we could not hope to combat them."

With a quiet curse, Orophin closed his eyes and admitted to himself that Haldir was right. He was willing to risk his safety up to a point, but he would not take both himself and his brother into a situation where they would certainly die. But they were so close! And they were meant to do something here!

"Come," Haldir whispered, putting a hand on Orophin’s shoulder and squeezing gently. "Let us return to Rivendell. We both have need of it, and we can inform them that an attack is being made."

With great reluctance, Orophin nodded and rose from his crouch. But before he could move to the lower branches, a new sound was heard. Clear and beautiful, rising high above the darkness and scattering the shadows below, an elven horn loosed its notes. Orophin felt his heart leap within his chest as the Orcs stiffened in alarm. "Mirkwood," he murmured. "That was Mirkwood."

"Greenwood," Haldir corrected absently, his gaze dropping swiftly to watch the Orcs. He was silent for a moment, and then his eyes narrowed. "The battle, Orophin. Listen to the battle and tell me what you hear."

Searching for the distant clash of swords, Orophin lifted his head and concentrated. It did not take long, for the noise had increased dramatically. Where before there had been only the distant ring of metal, now there was shouting and many strikes, as though two great armies had found one another. "The Orcs were wise to suspect a trap," he observed with a hint of a smile.

"The Orcs would be foolish to suspect aught else," Haldir returned.

"Do you think they will send more to the battle?" Orophin asked, hope suddenly returning to his heart.

"I do not know, but I think it likely. Watch."

And Orophin watched, calling into play the patience he had developed through countless years as a Marchwarden. If the Orcs had been uneasy before, they were doubly so now. Those that had been sent back into the forest drifted again toward the cave. A warning sounded somewhere within Orophin’s mind, and he frowned. There were a few clans of Orcs that valued discipline and obedience, but these were generally exceptions that proved the rule. Some of the Orcs below should have been racing to join the battle. Either that or racing away from it. Yet these held their positions in an unusual show of loyalty, and Orophin wondered what this might mean.

But while he was thinking on this, a large Uruk suddenly appeared in the cave’s entrance, and he summoned the other Orcs to him with a sharp call. Their strange behavior momentarily forgotten, Orophin slowly eased onto the lower branches of his tree. Haldir followed, his movements cautious.

"What do they say?" Orophin asked.

"They speak of an ambush. More elves than they expected." Haldir hesitated and his jaw tightened. "They are pulling additional Orcs away to join the attack. Those remaining are to wait in the caves, and none are to wander the forests."

"How many will be left?" Orophin asked. He waited a moment, but his brother did not answer, choosing instead to stare at the cave and the Orcs within. "Haldir, how many will be left here?" Orophin tried again.

"Ten," Haldir said at length. "Ten will be left to guard this entrance."

Orophin’s eyes gleamed. "Ten is a reasonable number."

"There will be more beyond the entrance. Orcs are to be stationed throughout the caves if help is needed."

"Then we will overcome those at the entrance in silence."

"A difficult task," Haldir warned.

"A task we have accomplished before," Orophin answered. "One will shoot from the trees. The other will charge forward on foot."

Caught between duty and caution, Haldir was clearly torn. He looked at the Orcs, he looked at his brother, and then he closed his eyes, tipping his head to one side. At length, he sighed and opened his eyes again. "You are certain you wish to do this?"

"We must. We did not come here by chance."

Haldir’s eyes were still conflicted, but he nodded slowly and began to move. "Wait until the Orcs see me. If you can, slay those furthest back in the cave first."

"Nay, I should be the one upon the ground," Orophin argued, seizing his brother’s arm. "You are the better archer, and I am the better runner."

"Orophin—"

"If we are to do this, you must trust me," Orophin said, hoping to get this point across now before it was too late. "I will rush the Orcs. You will provide cover. If you try to shelter me, we will both be killed."

Shaking his head grimly, Haldir gave his brother a stern glare but nevertheless pulled an arrow from his quiver. "Attack from the side, then. Be swift and be careful. If one sounds an alarm, withdraw immediately!"

"I will," Orophin assured him, and then he dropped out of the tree, moving quickly before Haldir could change his mind.

Pulling a long knife from his belt, Orophin crept forward, approaching the sheer walls of the cliff and staying within the shadows. Quiet whispers in the branches above indicated that Haldir was better positioning himself, and Orophin felt the sweet thrill of anticipation fill him. Increasing his pace slightly, he wove through the last few trees, heedless of the darkness about his feet, and pressed himself against a large rock, still unseen by the Orcs in the mouth of the cave. His eyes swept the leafy canopy above and he eventually found Haldir, who already had an arrow notched and drawn. With a smile and a whispered prayer to Elbereth, Orophin stepped away from the rock, shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, and charged.

Sprinting at full speed around the rock, he hugged the side of the cliff as he ran. Long, quick strides ate away at the distance, and he was nearly on top of the Orcs before one of them turned and saw him.

An arrow whistled through the air, finding a mark near the back of the cave’s entrance, and Orophin slowed just enough to kill the Orc nearest him before swinging around and whipping his knife through another’s throat. A second arrow hissed as it flew behind Orophin, followed by a third and then a fourth. Six Orcs died before the others had time to even think of giving a warning, and then the seventh Orc opened his mouth to call down the dark tunnels of the cave. He was too far away for Haldir to have a shot, so Orophin did the next best thing and threw his knife. The Orc collapsed without a sound as Orophin bent to snatch a short sword from one of the fallen Orcs. Another arrow found its mark as Orophin’s borrowed blade severed an Orc’s head from its body before ultimately lodging in the stomach of his last enemy. A slight gurgle was the only alarm the Orcs were able muster, and that faded quickly.

Pausing to catch his breath, Orophin looked down the tunnels anxiously, but there was no sound of running feet and he could see no Orcs waiting. The dark passages turned sharply to the left further in, and the sentries Haldir had spoken of were probably beyond that corner. Keeping his eyes fixed on the darkness in case an Orc should come into view, he knelt to collect the knife he’d thrown and then rose as Haldir hurried into the cave, his bow partially drawn.

"The way is clear," Orophin whispered, wincing when his voice echoed a bit.

"It will not remain so for long," Haldir muttered. "This is foolish."

Having successfully gained entrance to the Orcs’ caverns, Orophin found it difficult to believe that they were still having this conversation. "If you are not committed, then stay. I am going on," he said sharply. "The Orcs will be concentrating on our kinsmen. Their commander will be relatively unguarded, and I intend to take advantage of this."

Haldir’s jaw tightened. "I do not like it, Orophin."

"I know," Orophin sighed. "But we cannot let such an opportunity pass. You know this. It is what we were both trained to do."

"If we err, we will not escape."

"Then we will not err. We have watched Orcs and their commanders for years. We have studied their movements and we have followed them into their strongholds. We have done this before, and we have lived to do it again. There are not two elves better suited for this than we."

"That is where you are wrong, brother," Haldir murmured. "We are not prepared for what we face, and were you to think about it, you would know this. But as you are intent, proceed. I cannot stop you now."

Orophin nodded and started forward, moving slowly so as to give his eyes time to adjust to the diminishing light. "This is no different from what we have done in the past," he whispered, making a final attempt at comfort.

Haldir merely followed him into the darkness, saying nothing.

* * * *

Silence.

Terrible, consuming silence.

Silence that was not made from the absence of sound but rather existed in its own right.

He had never wondered what it would be like to scream and yet never hear the sound of his own voice. It wasn’t really the sort of thing he wondered about. It wasn’t really the sort of thing anyone wondered about. Now he wished that it was. He wished that such thoughts had occupied his mind before now. Before it was too late. Before the silence fell. Maybe it would have prepared him.

He drifted in a void. There was no light. There was no darkness. There was nothing. No direction. No purpose. It seemed to him that he waited, though what he waited for, he could not say. He could not remember coming here. He could not remember how long he had been here. He could barely remember what it had been like before.

He dimly recalled that he had a name. He could not remember what that name was, but he knew that it existed and that it was his. He also knew that he had once been able to hear the sound of his own voice. The sound of his own scream.

Sometimes he wondered if he really was screaming. He thought he was, though he could not be certain. Screaming was what he was supposed to do, and thus it made sense that he would be doing it. Screaming brought help. Screaming brought friends. Friends that could save him as he could no longer save himself. He thought he remembered having those. Friends. But they were little more than a vague memory.

He had other vague memories. Some of them concerned times when screaming had brought no help. When friends were unable to come or not close enough to hear. When the only answer was the taunts and jeers of the enemy or the sound of his own voice growing hoarse from abuse and torment. But now, there was nothing. If he had a voice, it was swallowed up by the emptiness around him. If friends or enemies were calling back, they were also soundless. He did not know if anyone was around. He did not know if anyone could hear. He did not know if anyone was trying to respond. He did not know if anyone was trying to come. He did not know if anyone even cared anymore. All he knew was that he was putting every ounce of effort into a scream that could not be heard or felt or answered. Yet still he screamed, for it was all he had left. It was the one thing he truly remembered from before. Everything else had been broken apart and built into something he did not recognize. And so he screamed, clutching desperately at this tattered fragment of memory with all that he could muster.

It might have comforted him to know that he was not wholly alone. There was another who drifted through a void and also screamed. Screamed yet made no sound. But there was no way for either to know of the other’s existence, and so they continued to scream, knowing that no one would answer them. As one mind, Merry and Legolas both screamed.

Unseen.

Unnoticed.

Unheard…

* * * *

Orc after Orc after Orc rushed into what might otherwise have been a fair morning, bellowing to one another in their foul language and sullying the air with their curses and stench. Further east, the rattle of armor and the crashing of metal joined the bedlam, accompanied by screams of the wounded and the dying. The harsh yells of Uruk captains and the whine of poison-tipped arrows completed the clamor, and from his hiding near the cave’s entrance, Calbenarth of Greenwood considered stopping his ears.

He didn’t, of course. He had lived too long and fought too many battles to surrender to such a petty temptation. But he could not deny that it was an appealing thought, for the din of battle grated hard upon him. One of the few surviving Sindar from the First Age, Calbenarth had captained beneath Thingol, Oropher, and Thranduil, stood defiant against both Morgoth and Sauron, and was now weary of it. Weary of fighting. Weary of pain. Weary of death. His heart longed for peace, but the darkness that now tainted his soul would never allow for such a thing. And every sword clash was a grim reminder that things would never be as they were. Not for him, and not for any elf of Mirkwood.

With a sigh, Calbenarth shook his head slightly and redirected his focus. Such thoughts had no place here. He had a duty to perform, and until that duty was completed, there was no room for anything else. Suiting thought to deed, Calbenarth turned his sharp eyes upon the fight that raged in the clearing to his east. It had been difficult to see the initial phases of the ambush from his position, but as all forces were now engaged in battle, he assumed that things had gone well. The Orcs were focused upon the eastern side of the clearing, and they did not yet seem to suspect that the battle was a diversion.

"How much longer?" a gruff voice whispered behind Calbenarth.

"Patience," came the somewhat terse answer. "Soon."

Glancing to the side, Calbenarth frowned and once again wondered why Lord Celeborn had insisted they bring the dwarf with them on this rescue mission. Calbenarth had said nothing aloud—it was never wise to gainsay Celeborn—but doubts preyed upon his mind. If they managed to slip into the caves unseen, a descendent of Durin might be useful, but Calbenarth doubted the dwarf’s ability to make it that far. Stealth and caution would be needed, and these two words were rarely used in conjunction with dwarves. Moreover, the elves in the group were not unfamiliar with caves. Celeborn had recruited four Marchwardens from Lothlórien who were all old enough to remember the elven caverns of Menegroth and Nargothrond while Calbenarth and the other three warriors from Greenwood had lived in Thranduil’s underground stronghold for centuries. An Orc cave was obviously quite different from this, but the differences should not be so confounding as to prove insurmountable for determined elves, particularly those from Greenwood who were here to rescue their prince. So why in Elbereth’s name was the presence of a dwarf necessary?

__

Because this dwarf is a friend of the prince and would have followed us regardless of whether he was invited or not, Calbenarth thought with a shake of his head. He was not overly fond of dwarves. Thingol’s death at the hands of Nogrod’s craftsmen was something he had never been able to forgive or forget, and he did not understand how Lord Celeborn, Thingol’s own kin, could so easily dismiss the past. True, this particular dwarf had somehow earned Legolas’s friendship, but Legolas was young and somewhat impulsive with little understanding of just how fickle dwarves could be. _This Gimli will bear close watching_ , Calbenarth decided, shifting further back into the trees so that he could better see both the battle and the dwarf. _And should his thoughts or actions stray, he will answer for them._

Movement on Calbenarth’s right sent him reaching for his sword, but he stopped when Elladan ducked beneath a low branch and moved to kneel beside the lord of Lothlórien. "There are fewer Orcs leaving the cave," Elladan murmured. "We should be able to move soon."

"Soon but not now. We wait until no Orcs are leaving the cave," Celeborn answered. "We cannot afford to attract the attention of those further east in the clearing."

"Those further east have their own worries," Elladan said.

"The battle goes well, then?" Gimli asked.

"I did not say that, but it does hold the Orcs’ attention."

Celeborn turned away from the fighting and gave Elladan a rather inscrutable look. "You do not think the battle goes well for us?"

His face troubled, Elladan frowned. "The first strike seemed…hasty," he confessed at length. "It is difficult to see much from here, but—"

"Your brother is capable," Celeborn interrupted briskly, his eyes sharp. "And now that Gondor, Lothlórien, and Greenwood have entered the battle, he has whatever support he may need. Turn your mind away from it. Our own battle requires your attention."

Satisfied that Lord Celeborn would keep Elladan focused, Calbenarth swept his gaze back to the entrance of the Orcs’ lair. Distracted though he might be, Elladan was right. The flow of the Orcs from the cave had ebbed significantly. Only small groups were moving out now, probably pulled from a sentry posts within the cave or at other entrances, and the number of these groups was diminishing rapidly. At the moment, seven mountain goblins were leaving, cringing beneath the sunlight that poured down upon them, and Calbenarth frowned as he watched them. The last few groups of reinforcements had all consisted of mountain goblins, and mountain goblins hated the sun even more than they hated elves. That they would risk its light for a battle that others already fought was an ill omen. With grim thoughts plaguing his mind, Calbenarth pressed his lips together and turned to watch for the next group.

A minute passed. No more Orcs left the cave.

Another minute passed. The entrance remained quiet.

Calbenarth felt his stomach tighten with anticipation. To his side, Lord Celeborn rose and moved forward cautiously, accompanied by both Elladan and the dwarf. Calbenarth pushed back the irritation that arose at such presumption and motioned the other elves to follow, his hand gripping the sword hanging on his belt. If all the reinforcements had arrived, then it was time to go. There would be guards just inside the cave, but they would be few and easy to overcome. 

"Now?" the dwarf asked, his voice a low rumble of impatience.

"The Orcs in the rearguard hang back too much," Celeborn whispered. "They must be closer to the fighting. One could easily glance back and see us."

"Why are they holding back, do you think?" Elladan murmured, his eyes narrowed. "That is not like Orcs. They should be pushing forward to join the battle."

"And the mountain goblins should not even be in the battle to begin with. Not with the sun overhead," the dwarf retorted. "None of this has made sense from the beginning, and I do not wish to wait any longer. We should go now!"

Calbenarth shocked himself to the very core by deciding that he agreed with the dwarf. They should go now. There was no guarantee that the rearguard would move further away, and the longer they delayed, the more likely it was that the Orcs left within the caves would drift toward this entrance. They needed to attack now while the Orcs below ground were still scattered throughout the caverns.

"The archers are too close," Elladan said with a shake of his head. "If they turn while reaching for an arrow, they will see us and we will lose all opportunities to slip inside."

"We are losing opportunities as we speak and—"

"Quiet!" Celeborn suddenly ordered, falling back into a crouch. His actions caused Calbenarth to duck behind a tree, and the others did likewise. As one, they looked to see what had prompted this, and their eyes were eventually drawn to the cave’s entrance.

More Orcs were emerging from the cavern, which was something of a surprise after the recent lull. But the even bigger surprise was the _kind_ of Orcs that came forth. They were not lowly mountain goblins but large Uruks bearing the symbols of both Orthanc and Mordor, and they walked close together as though sheltering something in their midst.

"A weapon?" Calbenarth wondered, unaware that he was voicing his thoughts aloud.

"Nay, a captain," Elladan answered, easing himself forward. "But I do not think it is an Orc. It appears that… Ai Elbereth!"

A furious dwarven oath followed Elladan’s curse as the Orcs parted momentarily, allowing the concealed elves a look at what was clearly a man. One brief glimpse was all they were given, but in that glimpse, Calbenarth saw a proud face twisted with a hint of madness and a mass of dark hair clipped just above broad shoulders. The man’s profile and appearance—even the touch of madness—was not unlike the Númenóreans of old, but the eyes… The eyes gave Calbenarth chills. Darker than the darkest Mirkwood night, the black eyes were filled with a power that called back memories of a Nazgûl’s scream.

"You recognize him?" Celeborn’s voice was sharp, and his tone made the words more a statement than a question. "Elladan? Gimli?"

"He perished with the fall of Mordor," the dwarf murmured, his eyes filled with disbelief.

"He was the messenger that came to the Morannon ere the final battle," Elladan whispered. "He bore tokens that Frodo had been captured, and he listed terms for our surrender."

"The Mouth of Sauron?" Celeborn’s voice was still sharp, but hidden beneath it was now an element of surprise and concern. Calbenarth’s unease doubled. "The reports proclaimed him dead."

"We thought he was!" Elladan hissed. "None survived the destruction of the Gates. None!"

"And yet there he walks," Celeborn said, his voice hard. "And doubtless he is leading these Orcs. He would have both the power and the ability to do so. That he risks himself now by venturing toward a battle…" Celeborn shook his head, and for a moment, uncertainty flickered upon his face. "It does not bode well for those we seek. If he dies ere we can reach Legolas and Meriadoc…" Celeborn paused again, gray eyes narrowed with suspicion

"I thought his death was necessary," Elladan said.

"It is, but not this soon. It is too early."

"Look," Gimli interrupted, raising his arm to point eastward. "Those who were hanging back have now moved forward."

Calbenarth turned his eyes upon the battle and saw that the dwarf was right. The few who had waited at the rear were now plunging forward with terrible fury. "They were waiting," Calbenarth realized.

"Waiting for their leader," Celeborn confirmed with a grim nod. He rose from his crouch and moved forward slowly. The cave’s entrance was now quiet. No Orcs could be seen near it, and the Uruks accompanying the Mouth of Sauron had now joined their companions in the rearguard, all of them pressing forward. "Come," Celeborn ordered. "Keep to the shadows and take advantage of whatever concealment you can. But move swiftly. The real battle is yet to come."


	30. The Roads Less Traveled By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell is playing host for some New Year's Eve activities while friends gather to celebrate Sauron's fall, and familiar faces are arriving from every direction. Unfortunately, not all of these familiar faces are invited, and the celebrations are cut short when an old enemy from the ruin of Mordor decides to jump in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By way of warning, there's a touch of gore in this chapter, specifically toward the end. Not enough to risk the PG-13 rating, but I thought I should warn you up front.

_Author's Notes: By way of warning, there's a touch of gore in this chapter, specifically toward the end. Not enough to risk the PG-13 rating, but I thought I should warn you up front._

The morning was strangely quiet.

Perched upon a large branch, Ithildae, captain of Greenwood, surveyed the forest with wary eyes. Even in the darkest days of Mirkwood, dawn had never been quite this silent. It was as though all of Arda stood upon the precipice of a dark chasm and waited for a coming wind that would either save or destroy.

His jaw tightening, Ithildae shook himself from his thoughts and rose from his crouch. Whatever came, the elves of Greenwood would meet it as they had always met the Enemy: dauntless and defiant. They would retrieve their prince, and they would teach his captors what it meant to take one of their own.

But in the meantime, they would concentrate on finding a pair of missing Marchwardens.

Ithildae rested a hand upon the comforting presence of his belt knife and watched the scouts around him. He did not agree with this mission, but he understood the reasons behind it. He had seen for himself how the darkness had affected Haldir, and he knew that he could not allow one so influenced to interfere with his king and those still on the trail of the Orcs. Beyond which, Lord Celeborn and Lady Arwen had both requested his aid in locating Haldir and Orophin, and Ithildae had always found it difficult to treat their wishes as anything other than commands. But even so, the inkling to rebel was growing in his thoughts. Ithildae's place was beside his king, as it had been since the end of the Second Age when Thranduil's father fell in the Battle of Dagorlad. His sworn duty was to protect the ruler of Greenwood. How could he do that if he was chasing after Lothlórien's wayward Marchwardens?

"Captain?"

A hushed voice broke his musings, and Ithildae turned as one of his elves approached. "Report," he ordered, his own voice little more than a whisper. The woods were too quiet for anything else.

"We believe we have located more of the trail. And perhaps signs of a struggle."

Ithildae frowned. "They came upon Orcs?"

The other elf shook his head. "There is evidence that Orcs have traveled this way, but the struggle seems to have taken place between the two brothers."

A cold dread seized Ithildae's heart. "They fought?"

"We believe so, my lord. There are marks that would indicate this. Yet we cannot determine how the conflict ended."

"Show me."

They moved quickly, silent and sure as they passed from branch to branch, and Ithildae felt the rest of the group drawing together around them, anxious to know if they had indeed found evidence of Haldir and Orophin. "Here, my lord," the elf said, dropping onto one of the lower branches. "Two sets of markings upon the branch, and both imprinted heavily for having been made by elves."

"As though one strove against the other," Ithildae said, crouching down and running his fingers over the faint tears in the bark. "You did well to find these. Your skills are to be praised."

"It was more by fortune than by skill. We noted broken limbs higher up and they led to this place. It seems our quarry fell from the upper branches, and there are signs above that indicate they struggled there as well."

"Bits of the trunk have broken off," Ithildae noted, rising and examining the coarse wood. "Someone was pressed against it. But how did this confrontation conclude?"

"That is what we have yet to determine, my lord."

"Captain!"

A new voice called out to them and Ithildae looked up to see one of his more talented trackers signaling for him to ascend. Hoping they had discovered additional clues, Ithildae quickly climbed higher into the trees. "You have found something else?"

"Naught that pertains to our search, my lord, but listen!"

His brow furrowing, Ithildae cocked his head to the side and closed his eyes, concentrating on what he could hear. For a moment, the slight movements of the surrounding elves were the only sounds that came to him, but then, faint and distant, he caught other sounds. Sounds of metal and voices raised in challenge.

"Swords," he whispered, opening his eyes.

"It seems that our kinsmen have found more Orcs, my lord."

"Indeed." Ithildae murmured. A thought came to him and he glanced down at the twisted limbs and bent leaves far below, the only evidence that two Marchwardens had passed this way.

"My lord?"

Ithildae frowned, considering the path before him. He could continue the search for Haldir and Orophin. It was what had been asked of him, after all, and he was a dutiful elf. But his first loyalty lay with his king rather than with his duty. And if his king was under attack…

"Captain?"

Turning his eyes south, Ithildae came to a decision. "The hunt for Haldir and Orophin is ended," he said. "We now travel a different road."

Startled faces met this announcement, and Ithildae felt hesitation rise in the hearts of those around him. "My lord, is this wise?" one of the archers asked. "We hunt for those deemed a danger to both themselves and our own forces."

"The stray Marchwardens will have to be left to their own devices. As for our own forces, Orcs pose a greater risk to our king and our prince than do the foolish actions of Lothlórien's errant guards. Now come!" he ordered, descending into the lower branches and suiting word to deed. "We follow the sounds of battle."

* * * *

They had settled into a routine very quickly. For Haldir, this was not unexpected. Routine was a way of pushing thoughts to one side. The same actions were repeated over and over with but slight variations, allowing Haldir's mind to drift away from what it was that he and Orophin were doing. Not that Haldir was inattentive. Far from it. He was possibly more alert now than he had ever been before. But it was not necessary to analyze each and every step along the way. He did not need to think about what might lie around the next corner because a system had been devised to deal with that, and this, in turn, was what kept them moving around each new corner. Had Haldir stopped to consider the danger of journeying further and further into an underground Orc stronghold with only his brother as company, he would have been unable to continue. But with distance and routine to shield his mind, he could forget about all that and concentrate on listening for Orcs. Haldir was not particularly pleased by this development, but he was wise enough to realize that there were few alternatives. They had come too far already.

The routine itself was quite simple. Good routines usually were. Haldir and Orophin would move forward swiftly but carefully, checking all crossing tunnels for Orcs. When their own tunnel divided, they would stop and choose their next path. Then Haldir would draw his bow and step into their new hallway. At that same time, Orophin would dart around him and charge forward in silence. More often than not, a goblin would be posted as a sentry somewhere in the corridor. He would jump at Haldir's appearance, but his eyes would be drawn to Orophin's movement, giving Haldir a chance to shoot him ere he could sound an alarm.

This arrangement worked well providing there was only one sentry. On hallways where there were two, Haldir would aim for the one furthest away while Orophin hastened to dispatch the nearer guard. They had been fortunate in their efforts so far, but Haldir knew it was only a matter of time before he missed or they came across a hallway with more than two sentries. He did not know how they would handle that, and because of routine, he had managed to avoid thinking about it.

"Haldir?"

Orophin's hushed voice was so low that Haldir had difficulty hearing it. _At least he appreciates the danger_ , he sighed, turning to look at his brother.

"The tunnel splits ahead. There are two new roads from which to choose."

Haldir nodded and drew his bowstring back. "We take whatever path descends. If both descend, we take the left."

Orophin bobbed his head once and allowed Haldir to move ahead of him. They had been frighteningly consistent in their choice of both downward paths and left paths. Neither could explain why. It was one of the few things about this entire journey that they agreed upon, and as such, it was not questioned. Haldir wondered if he would come to regret that. Instincts were valuable and not to be disregarded, but this drive to travel down and left was unnerving.

A touch on his arm drew his mind away from such thoughts. Routine took charge once more as Orophin tipped his head forward and to the left. Haldir looked ahead and nodded his agreement. Both tunnels descended. They would take the one upon the left.

Pressing himself against the side of the tunnel, Haldir eased forward until he had a good view of the right fork. He and Orophin carried no torches as it made them easy targets, but this meant that they were essentially wandering about in the dark. There were some torches in wall sconces burning fitfully, but these were few and far between. It was difficult to see much in the shadows, and Haldir's eyes scoured the darkness until he was absolutely certain that no sentry in the right fork would be able to see them as they crossed into the left.

"We move," he breathed. Orophin tensed at his back and Haldir tapped his bow once upon the floor as a signal, counted to three, and then stepped around the corner.

Weight poised upon the balls of his feet, he immediately came to a full draw and sighted along the arrow shaft as Orophin sprinted past him. Far down the sloping corridor, firelight reflected off metal as a goblin shifted, drawn by the unexpected movement. Haldir's arrow whistled over Orophin's head a moment later, and Haldir smiled grimly when he heard a thud and a strangled hiss. At the same time, he heard a blade slice through flesh and turned just in time to see Orophin dispatch an Orc without armor that had been lurking in the shadows only a few yards away.

"The last four turns have all had two guards," Orophin whispered. "We are nearing something."

Haldir frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but a gleam of metal even further down the corridor suddenly caught his attention. Snatching an arrow from his quiver, he loosed it just as a startled shout rang out in the darkness. The cry died quickly, but Orophin and Haldir both froze, listening for the sounds of running feet. A long minute crawled by before either of them dared to breathe again.

" _Three_ guards," Haldir hissed, still listening intently. "We are indeed nearing something. But if that is so, then why did the shout bring no other guards."

Still crouching beside the fallen Orc, Orophin said nothing for a moment, his eyes intent upon the darkness. "Perhaps you silenced the third swiftly enough," he finally said. "Or perhaps…" He trailed off, a strange look flashing across his face. "Perhaps what we near is to be guarded but also preserved. The one who commands this filth would not wish to lose his prize to sport. Perhaps there are no other guards. Perhaps these three were the last. We are deep enough to be near dungeons."

Haldir considered that. "You think we near the prisoners?"

"I think it a likely possibility. We were brought here for a purpose. What if that purpose is not to kill the Orcs' commander but rather to rescue those taken captive?"

Doubts were quick to rise in Haldir's mind. "You still believe our actions are directed?"

"Perhaps not directed, but guided, certainly. And if you do not believe that, then believe this: that shout should have brought other guards, but none have come. These Orcs were guarding something, that much is clear. But I see no signs of what they might be guarding in this tunnel. Why? Perhaps because they are not meant to be next to that which they guard. And to me, that indicates we are very close to their captives. Perhaps only a cavern away!"

Haldir pressed his lips together in a thin line and moved back to the hallway they had just left. He could see no signs of activity, and he could hear nothing from the right fork. Orophin's reasoning made sense, and he was more inclined to trust it now that they had left the twisting darkness behind. For reasons he did not know, the strange shadows upon the ground did not extend into the caves, and Haldir's mind felt reasonably clear. And yet… How was it that they had come so far so easily? It could not be by fortune alone. Nothing was ever so simple. Perhaps their path had been made in part by both fortune and by the Orcs. "It may be that they wish us to find the prisoners," he murmured.

"Pardon?"

Only now aware that he had voiced his thoughts aloud, Haldir quickly shook his head. "If you are right, then fortune has been unusually kind."

Orophin's eyes gleamed in the darkness, and his blade flashed briefly as he wiped it on the dead Orc beside him. "You do not trust fortune."

"Nay, I do not. But neither do I spurn the gifts she grants."

What might have been a muted chuckle came from Orophin's direction as the other elf rose and turned away. "You are forever contrary."

"And you are forever talking," Haldir answered, unable to deal with the other's lack of concern. "Now hush."

To Haldir's relief, Orophin complied and said no more. He waited quietly while Haldir paused to mark the tunnel they were leaving, scratching a faint symbol in the wall with the tip of an arrow. Once their path out of the caves was clear enough for elven eyes, Haldir returned to his brother, and together they moved down their new corridor, which proved to be much steeper than the other tunnels had been.

It was also much shorter. Haldir soon discovered that this tunnel divided not far beyond the third guard, and he frowned, not trusting its length. Routine began to give way to fear and doubt. Had they made a mistake in choosing this path? But no, that did not feel right. And there had been three guards. Surely Orophin was right about nearing something of great value. Something like prisoners. That made sense, even if other things did not.

"Haldir, the path—"

"I know," Haldir interrupted, stopping. He stared at the upcoming split, wondering if this was simply another sign that their journey was nearing its end. "Left," he murmured at length. "Neither path descends, so we will turn left once more."

"There is a red glow coming from the left," Orophin observed. "A torch must sit close to the turn. We will be easy to see."

"Then we will also be quick," Haldir said briskly. He notched an arrow and partially drew his bow, moving forward once again as Orophin fell into step behind him. They soon reached the point where the tunnels forked, and Haldir eased forward until he had a good view of the right side. The way was clear, so he signaled to Orophin that he was about to step into the left tunnel. Orophin nodded and Haldir once again tapped his bow upon the floor, counted to three, and then moved.

The first thing he saw was a torch only a few feet away from his face. Its light blinded him and he hastily stepped to the side as Orophin rushed past, struggling to see into the darkness beyond the flames. He sensed more than saw light reflecting off metal a stone's throw away and he hurried to shoot. But Orophin suddenly returned and seized his arm, stopping him.

"Bars!" the younger elf hissed. "That metal is not armor but bars! We have found a cell, Haldir! We have found a cell and the way is open! We were right!"

Haldir blinked, still partially blinded by the torch, and Orophin quickly drew him forward until the light was behind them both. The blindness passed quickly as his eyes readjusted themselves to shadows, and in a matter of moments, Haldir could make out thick black bars on the left side of the corridor. Even further away, a second torch burned brightly where the tunnel ascended into darkness, and Haldir felt his heart lift with hope. Perhaps fortune had favored them after all. This was obviously a significant cell of sorts. Why else would three Orcs guard the adjacent tunnel? Perhaps they had found the prisoners. And if Orophin was right about this, perhaps he was also right about their purpose here.

Then Haldir saw the cell's open door.

Hope died away.

"Haldir?"

Ignoring the concern in Orophin's voice, Haldir pushed him aside and moved forward, despair settling hard upon him. He should not have ignored his instincts. It had indeed been too good to be true. They had come all this way and found a cell, but it was the wrong cell. All things considered, they had probably walked straight into a trap.

There was a sharp hiss behind him, and Haldir turned in time to see his brother's face cloud over. "The door is open," Orophin murmured.

Haldir nodded grimly. "There are no prisoners here."

"But perhaps this is not the only cell. Perhaps there are others about. Or perhaps the prisoners are shackled and unable to move. Would the Orcs leave the door open then?"

"It would be unlikely," Haldir sighed. "Though we may think them otherwise, Orcs can be quite prudent. They would not leave a cell unlocked even if the prisoners within were restrained. They would take every measure available to prevent escape."

"But the Orcs are not acting as though they are prudent!" Orophin argued. "Prudence would not have drawn the bulk of their force away from the entrance. Prudence would not have left but two guards in every corridor."

"And that is precisely the problem," Haldir shot back. "We should not have been able to come this far, Orophin. The ease of our journey can only mean that they were expecting someone to attempt this and wished for that someone to reach the depths of their stronghold. This has all been an elaborate trap!"

Orophin was silent for a moment, his gaze turned inward, and then he shook his head. "No," he said, seeming to speak more to himself than to Haldir. "It might have begun as a trap, but it has since become something else. We knew we had to come this way. We both knew. There is another purpose here." He frowned, his features dark in the torchlight, and then he strode forward as though filled with sudden resolve.

Determined to stay at his brother's side—especially in light of his denial—Haldir followed, expecting to be assailed at any moment. Yet no attack was launched, and they soon reached the bars and the open door, which now felt strangely familiar to Haldir. His senses prickling, he glanced uneasily between the two ends of the tunnel, almost hoping to see Orcs so that the waiting would be over.

But still there was nothing.

"Haldir!"

Orophin's whispered shout spun Haldir around, and he searched the darkness for his brother, eventually spying him within the cell itself. "Orophin, what—"

"Lord Legolas. The hobbit. They are here!" Orophin hissed, dropping to his knees.

"In an unlocked cell?" Haldir demanded, looking up and down the tunnel once more.

"Unfettered in an unlocked cell," came the answer.

A terrible thought struck Haldir. "Do they live?"

There was a moment of hesitation. "They breathe."

Something about that answer sent chills down Haldir's spine. Deciding that caution would have to wait a moment, he gave the ends of the tunnel one final glance and then entered the cell. A gagging stench nearly drove him back out, and his stomach lurched violently, reeling along with his senses. Steeling himself, he pressed forward until he reached his brother, all the while wondering what in Arda could possibly cause such a vile odor.

"I see no wounds," Orophin told him, running quick but careful hands over Legolas. "And I feel no injuries. But they do not wake, and I do not think their own waste could cause this smell." He paused and glanced around. "Especially since there seems to be nothing in the way of such waste."

"Perhaps they were recently moved here, and for this move, perhaps they were drugged," Haldir murmured, stepping over Legolas and kneeling beside the hobbit. He ran his own hands over Merry's head but found nothing that would explain his unconsciousness. Continuing the exam, he searched hurriedly for broken bones that would need to be set ere the hobbit could be moved.

"But that does not explain the open door. And what of the smell?"

Haldir frowned and looked up at the bars, staring at them as though they might contain answers. But the cold iron mocked him with silence, and the red light beyond revealed nothing. More certain than ever that this was trap—though he was hard-pressed to explain either the trap's purpose or why the trap had yet to close—Haldir sighed and turned his attention back to Merry. With no other options, he might as well play along. It would make Orophin happy, at least. "I do not know what makes this smell," he whispered, easing his hands beneath the hobbit so that he could be turned onto his back. "But I do not think we should wait for answers. If Merry and Lord Legolas can be moved, then we must leave at once."

"There is nothing to indicate they should _not_ be moved," Orophin said. "But I think we should learn what…Elbereth!"

Staring down at Merry, Haldir also swore. The hobbit now lay upon his side, partially turned over, but Haldir could not complete the process. His eyes were locked on a black film that dripped from Merry's mouth and coated his chest. A thick, sludge lay on the floor where he had rested, and Haldir stared it, flickers of memory pulling at his mind. The stench that had first assaulted him now rose up with a vengeance, clearly coming from whatever Merry had been forced to ingest.

"You were right," Orophin breathed. "They were drugged. Or at the very least, the hobbit was. But with what?"

"Dol Guldur," Haldir hissed. "When we cleansed Dol Guldur, we found this same paste. I did not know its purpose then, nor do I know it now. But it was evil. Others with me recognized it, and they blanched at the very sight. But they would tell me nothing."

"It reeks of Morgul poisoning," Orophin whispered, his eyes widening. "Could this—"

"I do not know," Haldir interrupted, scooping Merry into his arms. He rose quickly, and moved toward the door. "Can you carry Lord Legolas?"

For answer, Orophin picked the other elf up, adjusting him so that his head was cradled on Orophin's shoulder.

"Good," Haldir said, hurrying out of the cell and praying that he was wrong about the existence of a trap. "We must move with all speed. If they are poisoned, I fear they have not long. And if they are but drugged, then there is still something dark at work within them. Haste!"

* * * *

Thranduil was stranded among the archers.

Under other circumstances, he might have been content with this state of affairs. He was gifted enough with the bow and had put it to good use against the masses that swarmed the clearing. But it was neither his best nor his favorite weapon. During the time of the Last Alliance, he had developed an almost Noldor fondness for the sword, a weapon he considered to be far more personal and direct than the arrow. And in facing the creatures that had stolen his son, Thranduil very much desired to be personal and direct. But that opportunity was lost to him, for the forward ranks of both Orcs and elves had closed.

The original plans had called for Thranduil to be at the front of these forward ranks, but the plans had changed with the sounding of three Orc horns behind Greenwood's position. They could ill afford to be attacked from the rear when the bulk of their force was engaged in the clearing, so Thranduil and several other captains had fallen back to organize the teams that would hunt down the forces abroad ere they could be a threat. As a result, Thranduil had not seen most of Rivendell's retreat, and he had been far back in the lines when the signal to charge was given. The opportunity to stand at the front was now lost, and those wishing to take part in the attack were forced to join with the archers. It was a position that ate away at his patience, and Thranduil found himself fighting a battle against not only the Orcs but also a rising tide of frustration.

He also found himself running short of arrows. The overwhelming number of enemies they faced provided the elves with no end of targets, but there was an end to their supply of bolts. Additional quivers were hidden further back in the trees, but Thranduil was reluctant to take one. While he was not unskilled as an archer, there were others about more talented than he, and the king felt that they should be given priority when it came to the extra quivers. So with his few remaining arrows, Thranduil was now searching out important enemies, a slow and tedious task that only added to his frustration. But unless he wanted to change the entire nature of the attack, he could do no more. And changing the attack would compromise their carefully laid plans, so Thranduil checked his growing anger and turned his attention to finding a new target.

Sweeping his eyes across the teeming hoards, Thranduil noted a few Orcs near the back who seemed to be captains and sighted his next arrow upon them. But then he stopped, his attention suddenly drawn even further back. A prolonged volley from Lothlórien's archers had cut away at the press in the rear, and Thranduil could now make out something odd: A ring of tall Uruks that did not press forward with the rest of the troops. They stood their ground, crying challenges and orders but never moving. And in their midst was…

A man?

_Nay, not quite a man_ , Thranduil thought to himself, his eyes narrowing. _Not anymore. But once. And from his appearance, a man who carried the blood of Númenóreans._

The king frowned and lowered his weapon, a feeling of uneasiness creeping over him. There was power in this man who did not seem to be quite a man. And from their behavior, the Uruks respected him. Perhaps even feared him. Surely he was the commander that had orchestrated the abduction and the attack on Rivendell. But why was he upon the fields? Both Thranduil and Celeborn had expected him to remain in the safety of the caves. That was one of Celeborn's primary reasons for sending an advance rescue party into the caverns. They needed to seek out and kill this man. Yet here he stood, all but inviting death.

Raising his bow again, Thranduil kept his eyes upon this man but did not come to a full draw. Life in Mirkwood had taught him to always look a gift horse in the mouth, and this unusual development demanded an explanation. Why did this man endanger himself? True, he was protected at the moment, but battles could change in an instant, particularly when elves were involved. He would not be protected indefinitely, and if he had survived the fall of the Morannon, then surely he was wise enough to know that.

For a moment longer, Thranduil debated the questions. For a moment longer, he paused. Then the moment passed and he drew the bowstring back to his cheek. Mirkwood may have taught him to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it had also taught him to take the horse. And with that thought, he fired.

But his hesitation cost him. The ranks of the enemy closed even as he shot, and the man disappeared behind a wall of teeming Orcs. The arrow slammed into the neck of mountain goblin, and Thranduil swore softly. But he now knew what to look for, and his sharp eyes quickly found the ring of Uruks again. He could no longer see the man, but if he killed those protecting him, perhaps that would change.

Drawing another arrow, Thranduil targeted one of the Uruks, but then he stopped, considering. If the Uruks were killed, then this dark commander might take refuge behind smaller Orcs, and it would be difficult to track him. He could slip away, possibly even disguising himself as one of Gondor's men in the confusion of battle. But if the Uruks remained, they could act as a marker that would be seen from afar, and the commander would be easy to find.

An idea came to Thranduil.

It was not a particularly good idea. It was not a particularly rational idea. It was a foolish, brash, and utterly reckless idea that would have been discarded the moment it arrived were it not for one thing: this idea happened to fall into that peculiar category of ideas that sometimes worked by virtue of sheer novelty. Thranduil had learned to never overlook such ideas.

But it was also an idea that required changing the nature of the battle. Because the Orcs' commander had appeared upon the field, Thranduil felt such a change was warranted, but his own captains might not agree with the direction he wished the battle to take. No, for this to work, Thranduil needed a conspirator who would recognize the opportunity offered, who would be eager to accept it, and who would have the power to carry it through.

_Elrohir_ , Thranduil thought, recalling the startling ferocity of the initial attack. _He would welcome this idea_.

Thranduil's keen eyes swept the ranks of Imladris, looking for the younger of Elrond's twin sons. The elves were scattered and mixed with the men of Gondor, but despite the confusion, Thranduil searched quickly and easily. He was accustomed to such conditions, and he knew well how to sift the chaos of a battle. But after a minute or two of thorough searching, he found nothing.

Elrohir was not among Rivendell's forward forces.

The feeling of unease returned, but Thranduil pushed it aside and expanded his search to include Rivendell's rear forces. Perhaps Elrohir had dropped back. It was an unlikely scenario given Elrohir's reputation, but Thranduil was not yet ready to consider the alternatives. He needed Elrohir alive and hale if he was to carry out his plan.

And then Thranduil found someone else who might work just as well.

With gray eyes as fey as Thranduil's own and a face that promised death to all that opposed him, Aragorn appeared in the back lines where the forces of Gondor and Rivendell merged. He had obviously been in the battle earlier, for his sword was dark with the carnage of Orcs, but it looked as though he had left the clearing and was only now returning. Where he had gone and what had happened to so darken his mood, Thranduil did not know. The thought came that Elrohir's absence might be related to this, but Thranduil pushed that thought aside. If something had happened to Elrohir, then something had happened and naught could be done about it now. Now was a time for vengeance, and while Aragorn was not an elf, he had proven himself to be more than a man, at least in battle. For Thranduil, that was enough.

Before he could reconsider his actions, the elven king shouldered his bow, dropped from the trees, and began to run. As though tasting his fury, the shadows upon the ground swirled and danced, writhing in dark coils. A part of Thranduil's mind cried out in warning, but Thranduil ignored it. The decision was made and there was no going back.

He hastened past his own archers, moving so quickly that they gave him no heed. Soon he was weaving through the rear of Rivendell's ranks with a skill born from centuries spent amidst tangled trees. He angled himself toward a point several strides in front of his quarry, never once slowing his pace for fear that he would be recognized and stopped before he could begin. Ere long he began moving through more men than elves, and just as Aragorn was about to force his way through the middle ranks and into the front lines, Thranduil reached him.

His hand shot out and grasped Aragorn's right forearm. Feeling muscles jerk in surprise beneath the gauntlet, Thranduil tightened his grip as the man swung around and pulled Gondor's king back toward the trees with a surge of elven strength. The bewilderment on Aragorn's face when he realized who had accosted him was worth every risk that this plan would entail, and Thranduil smiled slightly even as he stopped and began to speak.

"Our enemies' commander is upon the field."

Aragorn blinked, and the raging fury within his eyes ebbed. "He risks himself?"

"Even as we do," Thranduil answered, releasing Aragorn's arm.

Almost as though the elf's touch had been a calming influence, feverish intensity returned to Aragorn's face, and he looked toward the forward ranks where the clash of swords and shields echoed loudly. "Where?"

"Toward the rear. Were we closer, you could see the ring of Uruks that protects him."

"Can the archers—"

"If his guards fell, he would seek cover elsewhere, and there is no guarantee that the archers would be able to track him. At the moment, he has no reason to run, but should that change, he might use whatever power he possesses to elude us."

Aragorn turned back to Thranduil, and the determination in his eyes told the elven king that he had chosen his ally well. "I assume you have brought me this information for a purpose," Aragorn said, unconsciously moving aside as several men rushed past them.

"The trap we laid was intended to catch and hold the Orcs," Thranduil said, speaking quickly and quietly. "It was not intended to penetrate their forces, for we did not expect their commander to show himself. Now that the situation has changed, I believe our response to it should also change. We must attack their commander directly. His death is necessary. And to that end, I would ask that you accompany me beyond the frontlines of the Orcs."

Fire flickered in Aragorn's face, but it was tempered now as he considered the logistics of Thranduil's proposal. "How are we to penetrate their forces? The Orcs have closed rank against us, and you said yourself that our formation is meant to hold and to trap, not to drive within."

"Order a press to the south and pull back your eastern forces."

Several different emotions flashed through Aragorn's eyes. "This will change the structure of the entire battle. We should alert the others."

"The elves will adapt accordingly. We have employed this strategy before."

A moment of hesitation came, lasting no longer than a heartbeat but seeming to stretch into eternity. Had need been less dire, Thranduil might have laughed. The choices of Isildur had made fruitless Oropher's death before the gates of Mordor, yet now Thranduil waited for Isildur's descendent to choose a course that would base their survival on their ability to work together.

Then Aragorn nodded, and the moment of hesitation was over.

All thoughts about Oropher and Isildur were pushed to the side, and Thranduil stepped back, a grim smile flashing across his face. "Join me behind the northern lines where your forces meet Lothlórien's."

"I will be there shortly," Aragorn answered. Then he was gone, slipping into the press of his men, and Thranduil turned toward the trees, quickly moving beneath the safety of their branches and heading west toward the cave.

Tracking the battle and its participants closely, Thranduil stopped when he neared the westernmost of Gondor's northern forces. Lothlórien's archers were now above him, but if they recognized the king of Mirkwood, they gave no sign. Their attention was on the clearing, and their rain of arrows was thick as it poured onto the hosts before them.

Having reached his destination, Thranduil settled back to wait. Waiting was an aspect of battle that he truly loathed, but knowing that his plan was in motion made the wait bearable. The shadows about his feet were quiet now, and Thranduil chose to interpret that as a good sign. His heart raged still, but his mind was clear. He could feel tendrils of darkness lurking about the edges, but it was not unlike what he had faced many times in Mirkwood when Nazgûl raided the outlying settlements. Regardless of whether his plan succeeded or failed, he could rest easy in the knowledge that it was _his_ plan and not some contrivance of the enemy.

After a time, Thranduil began to see changes in Gondor's forces. The eastern ranks began to thin, and behind the curve of the northern line, men gathered and pressed toward the front. It was not long before the Lothlórien archers above realized that something different was happening, and their captains began to adjust their position, just as Thranduil knew they would. About the same time, the Orcs always realized that a change had occurred, and sensing weakness to the east, they surged against the dwindling line. From the north, Lothlórien's forces answered with a rain of arrows, and a portion of the Orcs swung toward these arrows in an effort to break through Lothlórien's ground defenses. With their enemies' attention divided between the eastern lines of Gondor and the northwestern archers of Lothlórien, the opportunity to strike was clear to all. Horns rang out, loud and defiant, and between the two forces, the northern ranks of Gondor charged.

They hit the lines of the Orcs like a wedge and drove through the ranks, forcing them to divide. The ripples of change immediately spread across the battlefield, and on the other side of the clearing, Rivendell was suddenly forced south by the charge. Greenwood moved west to accommodate them and began to press back, breaking open the very shell they had constructed to trap the Orcs. The frontlines deepened and cracks began to form.

Aragorn chose that moment to appear at Thranduil's side, and together they watched in silence as the ranks of the Orcs splintered. Holes opened, offering escape to any enemy that would take it. But none fled. Unease settled yet again in Thranduil's mind. This was not normal.

"Why do they stay?" Aragorn murmured. "Why do they not run?"

"The captain," Thranduil answered, casting his eyes toward the back of the Orcs where he knew the ring of Uruks waited. "They stay by his will."

"Not even Sauron—"

"There are but few Orcs here compared to the legions Sauron amassed," Thranduil said, turning his eyes to the battle close at hand. Gondor's press had driven the Orcs away from the edge of the forest, but to their right, a large number of Orcs were all but in the branches as they attempted to break through Lothlórien's spears and reach the archers in the trees. An uneven line was forming that linked the two groups, and Thranduil now watched this line very closely. It was the key to his entire plan. The moment it broke…

"Now!" he ordered, surging forward and sweeping his sword from its scabbard. He felt more than saw Aragorn racing beside him, and the two kings made for the gap just as the line shattered. Like wine bursting from an old cask, Orcs tumbled beyond the lines, forced forward by the press behind them, and using this movement as a mask for their own movement, Thranduil and Aragorn plunged into the wake of the split.

It worked surprisingly well.

The enemy's concentration was focused upon the front. So numerous were the Orcs that little attention was given to the center of the field, which was where Thranduil now found himself. His arrival was a shock to each new goblin he encountered, and his speed was such that they had no chance to recover. But word of his presence began to spread, and gradually, a portion of the Orcs turned inward. It became more difficult to force his way forward, and Thranduil drifted in front of Aragorn so that the path they needed could be smaller. Without missing a stride, Aragorn fell back slightly and began a perfect counter to Thranduil's movements, surging left when Thranduil hit right and blocking right when Thranduil struck left.

Confusion among the Orcs now spread like ripples in a pond. Those caught between Thranduil and the frontlines were at a loss, not knowing if they should turn inward or continue to press outward. Arrows from the north and the south fell into the western portions, opening the way before Thranduil and further disorienting the enemy. Making use of the growing chaos, Thranduil quickened his pace, spotting the ring of Uruks and hastening toward them. They were close. They were very close!

But they could not get closer.

Thranduil had employed this particular attack only once before, but he had used similar strategies many times. And when the frontlines ruptured and enemies entered the back ranks, stragglers in the rearguard fled, allowing the elves to attack from all sides. But that was not happening here. Because of what he'd seen earlier, Thranduil had anticipated this, but not to the degree in which it now presented itself. There was a solid wall of mountain goblins—creatures that hated the day almost as much as they hated the elves—between Thranduil and the Uruks. And they would not be moved. Had they even skirted to the side of the battle, it would have been enough. But they did not. They stood their ground and cried challenges to the elven king who could go no further.

"Hold," Aragorn shouted. "We need hold this position for but a moment."

When their forward progress stopped, the man had shifted until he was back-to-back with Thranduil, giving him a clear view of the battle behind them. Whatever Aragorn now saw gave him hope, and Thranduil decided to believe in this hope. He could not turn to look himself as he was fending off a press of goblins, but Aragorn had proven trustworthy this far. He could be trusted a little farther.

Dropping back a bit in an effort to find more room to maneuver, Thranduil felt Aragorn take control of the attack. The man began a press against the forces they'd just broken through, and Thranduil's moves became more defensive than offensive. Sensing weakness, the goblins sprang forward and Thranduil might have been forced to retreat even further were it not for a stream of arrows that suddenly appeared from the west.

_Well done, Tawar_ , Thranduil thought, sending out a silent praise to his captain above the cave's entrance. Tawar had obviously read the battle correctly and determined that secrecy was no longer paramount. His archers were now attacking the rear lines furiously, and the Orcs intent upon Thranduil pulled back, dismayed by this new attack.

"Forward!" Aragorn shouted, and out of the corner of his eye, Thranduil witnessed the arrival of several Rivendell captains, undoubtedly making use of the same strategy that had enabled the king of Greenwood and the king of Gondor to come so far. Now Thranduil understood what Aragorn had seen when he told him to hold, and now armed with greater numbers as well as a flurry of arrows from the west, they could pierce the final ranks.

"Elbereth!"

"Isildur!

The goblins shrank before the names, and Thranduil charged forward with Aragorn at his side once more. Together they drove a wedge through their enemies even as Rivendell's captains also attacked, and caught between sword and arrow, most of the Orcs were swept aside and trampled. Onward they pressed as streams of blood, both black and red, shot up around them. The ground became slippery, and Thranduil was soon sliding more than running. Screams and cries and clashes of arms rang loud in his ears, but still he pushed on, never losing sight of his goal.

And then he was there.

He plunged his sword into the Uruk before him. To his right, Aragorn's swipe relieved another of its head. A Rivendell captain broke through on his left and killed a third. The ring broke and the Uruks stepped apart in order to move more freely. But Thranduil had eyes only for the man they had protected. A man who now stepped forward with his sword raised in mockery of a salute.

Returning the salute with a hard smile that did not reach his eyes, Thranduil attacked.

Blades met with a force that sent shivers down Thranduil's arms, and he spared a moment to wonder at this man's strength. For a second or two they were locked together, unable to move, and then Thranduil felt the pressure ease. The man jerked away in a move designed to disrupt Thranduil's balance, and with a grace that might have been elven, he brought his sword around for another strike.

But Thranduil moved first.

Anticipating the tactic, he broke away just before his opponent did. He allowed the attack, but he angled his block and the man's sword slid harmlessly to his left. Pressing the advantage, Thranduil surged forward with elven speed and delivered a hard cut from the right. A lesser opponent would have died then, but the man who was not quite a man recovered in time to answer the attack. Shifting his weight to his right foot, he pivoted and blocked. Thranduil's sword was deflected enough that it but grazed the arm, skittering across leather and chain mail.

But having gained the upper hand, Thranduil was not about to relinquish it. Moving quickly to adjust his balance, he tightened his grip and forced his sword down. Without the momentum of a full swing, he could not break through the armor but he could force the man into a retreat. And unprepared for this new tactic, the man had no choice but to stumble backwards, striking out with his sword in a move that was purely defensive.

Advancing before his opponent could recover, Thranduil struck again. As before he was blocked, but Thranduil was relentless. He attacked again and again, making his strikes swift and hard. The man reacted, moving far too quickly for mortal abilities, but Thranduil was faster still. With a blinding series of feints and blows, he continued to drive his opponent back. But for all of Thranduil's skill, he could not penetrate his guard. Wherever he struck, he was blocked. Wherever he attacked, he was rebuffed.

Chilled by the man's ability, Thranduil increased his speed even more, but the man answered him, their movements becoming so fast that they were naught more than a blur to all else. His enemy could offer no attack of his own. Thranduil was too swift for that. But it seemed that he could stand against the elf indefinitely. Realizing that help would be needed to dispatch the man, Thranduil began angling them toward a clash of arms to his right, hoping that another would join the fight. It was not the honorable thing to do, but Thranduil had never seen an advantage in according the enemy honor.

And then the man slipped.

Slick with blood, the hidden ground betrayed him. For the briefest of moments, his defenses faltered, and Thranduil saw his opening. With one quick thrust, the elven sword plunged into the man's chest, tearing open the leather jerkin and forcing its way past the chain mail. The man's mouth opened in a soundless scream, and his sword clattered to the shrouded earth. His blood singing with fury, Thranduil pushed the sword deeper and then twisted it violently, ensuring that the blow was a fatal one. Eyes as black as the darkness of Dol Guldur stared at Thranduil, and Thranduil met them evenly, never flinching away. The man slowly sank to his knees, shuddering, and Thranduil started to withdraw his sword. But what happened next stopped him cold.

The man began to laugh.

The cool morning air became cooler still, and Thranduil fought to keep his horror from showing on his face. He recognized this laugh. It was the laugh of a doomed man welcoming the end, but it was also the laugh of a victor achieving success against all hope and all odds. It was the kind of laugh heard far too often among Thranduil's own people during the years of Dol Guldur and the Necromancer, and it was the kind of laugh that summoned dark memories better left buried. Such a laugh did not belong here. Not in the moment of their triumph!

And then the man began to speak.

"Well done," he hissed, his hands wrapping themselves around the sword in his chest."Well done with both…the fight and…with your son."

Thranduil's stomach clenched, and his ears became deaf to the sounds of the battle that yet raged around him. "What of my son?" he growled.

"I must…thank you for him."

A shadow seemed to pass over the sun, and time crawled to a stop. Thranduil was suddenly aware of Aragorn standing on the other side of the dying man, his eyes filled with terrible recognition.

"He was a…wonderful student. Thank you for…letting me teach him."

And with these words, the man who was not quite a man slumped forward, his chest tearing against Thranduil's sword, and the moment that should have given Thranduil great joy was suddenly shorn of its glory. The body slid off the sword and fell to the ground. Shadows rose to meet it, and a shuddering groan was heard from deep within the earth. The cries of the Orcs faded, and a hush seemed to fall over all.

Darkness exploded.

The shadows clouding the ground became layers upon layers of smoke, and they surged upward as though in celebration, choking the air. Throughout the clearing, cries of dismay were heard, and battle was replaced by a desperate struggle to breathe. His lungs screaming and his eyes burning, Thranduil staggered forward, unable to see anything through the sudden haze. He heard Aragorn coughing somewhere off to his right, and Thranduil quickly moved toward the sounds. A patch of black swam before him, and he reached out, seizing Aragorn's tunic and pulling the man close.

"You knew him!" Thranduil hissed, trying to limit himself to short, quick breaths. "Who was he?"

"The Mouth of Sauron," Aragorn answered, his own breath coming in tight gasps. "We met him before the Morannon."

Thranduil's heart shuddered. Legolas had told him of Barad-dûr's lieutenant, and Thranduil had heard rumors from creatures fleeing the ruin of Mordor. The Mouth of Sauron inspired fear still. But he had been reported dead, lost in the destruction of the Black Gates!

"The caves!" Aragorn suddenly coughed. "If the shadows extended into the caves…"

"Legolas," Thranduil whispered. If the tunnels were filling with smoke, they would become a death trap for any caught within.

But the clearing would be no better if the smoke did not lift soon. Tightening his grip on Aragorn's tunic, Thranduil propelled the man forward. They had to look to their own safety ere they could see to the safety of others, and for that, they needed to find a place where they could breathe.

As though cued by this thought, Aragorn suddenly stumbled and began to wheeze, shaking violently. Thranduil's hold on his tunic was all that kept him on his feet, and the elven king hastened his pace, forcing the man forward with one hand while the other knocked aside all obstacles with the flat of his sword. Thranduil could not risk combat without knowing whether he struck Orc, man or elf.

But Aragorn could run only so far, and with shuddering gasps, he collapsed to his knees. Fighting off the hated feeling of helplessness, Thranduil stopped and swung around, searching the smoke despite his stinging eyes. Still he could see nothing, and he did not know if they had gone far enough to escape the bulk of the Orcs. Yet it was plain that they could not go further. Should the foul creatures wish to fight again, he would have to make his stand here.

Praying that their position was defendable, Thranduil tightened his grip on his sword and cursed all that the Dark Lord had wrought. Their enemy was dead, but his corruption lived on.


End file.
